-NRLF 


&*s 


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"WITH    SUN-TROD   FACES   AND   HORN-GLOVED   HANDS." 


[P.    113. 


FARM    FESTIVALS 


BY  WILL  CARLETON 

// 

AUTHOR  OF   "FARM   BALLADS"   "FARM   LEGENDS"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW     YORK 

HARPER     &     BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS 

FRANKLIN     SQUARE 
1882 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1881,  by 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS, 
In  the  Office   of  the   Librarian   of  Congress,  at  Washington. 

All  rights  reserved. 


TO 

SISTERS    AND    BROTHER 

ALL  GONE   ON 

THROUGH  SAD,  MYSTERIOUS  MISTS 

INTO 
THE  GREAT  BRIGHTNESS 


775699 


PREFACE. 


all  the  festivals  of  the  farm  have  been  attempted  in  these  pages : 
^  there  are  still  more  in  the  author's  heart  than  in  his  book. 

Snch  only  have  been  selected  as  might  best  help  to  express  the 
thoughts,  fancies,  and  memories  which  were  uppermost  in  his  mind, 
and  (in  a  few  cases)  to  garner  certain  poems  already  written. 

Some  of  the  characters  were  drawn  from  people  the  author  has 
known — some  of  the  incidents  from  scenes  in  which  he  has  participa 
ted  ;  but  the  names  used  are,  of  course,  all  fictitious,  though  taken 
at  random  from  such  as  are  likely  to  be  found  in  any  farming  com 
munity. 

With  these  few  words  of  introduction,  he  respectfully  presents  to 
the  public  this  third  number  of  THE  FARM  SERIES,  and  will  be  more 
than  pleased,  should  it  gain  as  kind  and  generous  a  greeting  as  have 

its  predecessors. 

W.  C. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The  Festival  of  Reminiscence  ;  or,  The  Pioneer  Meeting 13 

Including   SONG  OF   THE   AXE 1 7 

THE  FIRST  SETTLER'S  STORY 19 

ELIPHALET  CHAPIN'S  WEDDING 31 

THE  SECOND  SETTLER'S  STORY 34 

SLEEP,  OLD  PIONEER  ! 41 

The  festival  of  Praise  ;  or,  Thanksgiving -day 45 

The  Festival  of  Good  Cheer  ;  or,  Christmas  Monologues 59 

The  Festival  of  Anecdote  •  or,  An  Evening  in  the  Country  Store 64 

Including   OUR   TRAVELED   PARSON QQ 

A  DIRGE  OF  THE  LAKE 74 

THE  DEAD  STUDENT 75 

THE  DEATH-BRIDGE  OF  THE  TAY 79 

THE  LIGHTNING-ROD  DISPENSER 89 

The  Festival  of  Clamor  ;  or,  The  Town  Meeting 94 

The  Festival  of  Melody  •  or,  The  Singing-school 100 

The  Festival  of  Industry  ;  or,  The  County  Fair 108 

Including  DIALOGUE  OF   THE    HORSES 1 1 2 

SONG  OF  THE  REAPER 114 

THE  LABORING  MEN 123 

THE  TRAMP'S  STORY 127 

The  Festival  of  Injustice  ;  or,  The  Lawsuit 133 

The  Festival  of  Dis-reason  ;  or,  The  Debate 141 

The  Festival  of  Reunion ;  or,  The  Golden  Wedding 14$ 

The  Festival  of  Memory  ;  or,  Converse  with  the  Slain 153 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

•'  With  sun-trod  Facts  and  horn-gloved  Hands" Frontispiece 

"The  Old  Guard  of  the  Woods'' 15 

"Her  little  Scrub  Class  in  the  Sunday-school" 21 

•'  Yes,she  had  come — and  gone  again" 30 

"Now,  when  he  Drone  his  Equipage  up  to  his  Sweetheart's  Door" 32 

•'  Come  on!"1  I  said,  "  with  your  fierce  Lips  red" 

"Sleep,old  Pioneer!" 43 

•"77$  in  the  thriftful  Autumn  Days" 47 

•k  TheWomenply  their  Knitting-work"1 51 

The  Festival  of  Good  Cheer 60.61 

•'  Aslcs  if  there's  lany  thing  for  us  to-day 'r 65 

"And  he  studied  quite  a  little  ere  he  got  the  proper  Reference" 68 

"'Twas  a  Picture-show , a  Lecture, and  a  Sermon, all  united" 70 

"I found  Jiim  in  his  Garden,trim  an1  buoyant  as  a  Feather" 71 

"  I  called  upon  him, as  it  were, at  Noon  the  Second  Day" 77 

-  But  look!  look!  the  Monster  is  Stumbling!" 83 

•'  Out, out, creep  two  brave,  sturdy  Fellows" 86 

"  She  held  me  saefast  and  sae  ticht" 88 

"'Twas  the  very  Jirst  occasion  he  had  Disagreed  with  me!" 92 

"A  half  Day  we  clamored  and  voted" 96 

•;  What  a  Monarch  he  was,  to  us  tune-killing  Wights!" 101 

"  The  Indian  Corn-ears. prodigal  of  yield" 108 

"•  The  golden  Pumpkin, Nugget  of  the  Field" 109 

"  The  Peach— rich  Alto  of  the  Orchard's  Tune" I11 

"As  I  clatter  and  clash  along" H5 

"  Than  she  has,  when  her  Baking  comes  out  right  f" 119 

"  The  Dogs  hotel  curses  at  me,  and  hunt  me  doicn  the  Road" 129 


1 2  ILL  USTRA  TIONS. 

PAGE 

"White  vowed,  in  words  profanely  deep'1'1 135 

"No  prestige  was  respected,  in  the  storm  of  rage  that  rose" 143 

"And  the  Parson's  virgin  Daughter,  plain  and  severely  pure" 149 

"Let  us  hold  Converse  with  a  Nation's  Slain"., 155 

"Dreaming  what  Royal  Lovers  such  Lovers  as  you  would  'be" 1G3 


FARM  FESTIVALS. 


THE    FESTIVAL    OF    KEMINISCENCE  ; 

OR, 

THE  PIONEER  MEETING. 


I. 

WITHIN  a  grove,  where  maples  strove 

To  keep  their  sweet-tongued  goods, 
Met,  worn  with  years,  some  pioneers— 

The  Old  Guard  of  the  wToods  ; 
Who  came  once  more  to  linger  o'er 

The  grim  work  of  their  primes, 
Renewing  here  the  grief  and  cheer 

Of  happy,  hard  old  times. 
Rough  clad  were  they  —  unkempt  and  gray 

With  lack  of  studied  ease- 
Yet  beauty-strewn  with  charms  their  own, 

Like  brave  old  forest  trees. 
Their  eyes  seemed  still  to  flash  the  wi|l  I 

Of  spirits  sent  to  win  ; 
Their  hands  were  marred;   their  cheeks- 

By  deep  wounds  from  within. 


With  awkward  grace  and  earnest  face 

Of  effort-bought  repose, 
With  troubled  ease  and  shaking  knees, 

Their  president  arose. 


14  Farm  Festivals. 

The  crowd  in  view  from  him  first  drew 

That  flustered  word  "Ahem!" 
He  who  when  found  on  equal  ground, 

Could  talk  so  free  with  them. 
('Tis  strange  how  one  who  well  has  known 

His  friends,  from  day  to  day, 
Those  same  ones  fears,  when  he  appears 

On  higher  ground  than  they !) 
But  he  arose,  and  his  snub  nose 

Twanged  with  a  sound  immense ; 
Which  bugle-blast  about  him  cast, 

Gave  him  self-confidence. 
And  while  a  look  of  reverence  took 

His  anxious-wrinkled  face, 
He  begged  the  good  old  elder  would 

Invoke  th-e  throne  of  grace. 

A  sweet  old  man,  of  clean-cut  plan 

And  undissembling  air, 
Rose  in  his  place,  with  fervent  face, 

And  made  a  business  prayer. 
He  never  threw  his  voice  into 

A  sad  uncalled-for  wail; 
He  ne'er  aspired  to  make  Heaven  tired, 

With  gossip  weak  and  stale; 
He  did  not  ask  a  toilless  'task, 

Or  claim  undue  reward, 
He  did  not  shout  opinions  out, 

Or  "dance  before  The  Lord"; 
He  did  not  prate  of  town  or  state, 
,    , ,  ,  r,  r,   :     Suggesting  them  by  name; 
rrr'       ,  \r   ',  '/ r,  'rWitli  his  calm  voice,  uo  precepts  choice, 
rrr  '",  r1 ''"'rrr     ',  rr  '  Or  general  orders,  came. — 

Th'anks — many  a  one — for  favors  done, 

Hopes — modest-clothed — for  more, 
Praise,  love,  and  fear,  and  all  sincere, 

And  then  his  words  were  o'er. 
So  old  was  he,  it  seemed  to  me, 

In  this  strong,  feeble  prayer, 


The  Festival  of  Reminiscence.  1 7 

He  knocked  once  more  at  Heaven's  front  door, 
And  left  bis  message  there. 


With  side-turned  head,  the  chairman  said, 

"To  help  this  meetin'  'long, 
My  eldest  son,  George  Washington, 

Will  perpetrate  a  song." 
Uncouth  of  view,  George  W. 

o 

Rose  in  his  ample  tracks, 
And  gave,  in  voice  not  over  choice, 
The  loud 

SONG   OF   THE   AXE. 

They  called  me  off  of  the  hard  conch  of  my  rest — 

"Wake  up!  wake  up!  for  the  morning  breaks!"  they  said. 
To  the  bath  of  the  white-hot  fire  they  bared  my  breast — 
The  lash  of  the  iron  sledge  fell  on  my  head. 
Far  and  near 

My  pain-cries  bounded ; 
Shrill  and  clear 

The  anvils  sounded ; 
"Work!"  they  cried: 

"  The  day  has  broke  ! 
The  forests  wide 

Await  the  stroke 
Of  the  serpent-spring  of  the  woodman's  corcly  arm, 

As  it  flings  the  white-toothed  axe  against  the  tree ; 
The  noon  shall  gleam  on  many  a  prosperous  farm, 
And  the  growing  grain  the  forest's  child  shall  be." 

I  went  to  the  streetless  city  of  the  wood — 
I  carried  there  destruction's  surest  pang; 
The  tree  that  many  a  hundred  years  had  stood, 

Now  fell  at  the  touch  of  my  silver-gleaming  fang. 
Far  and  wide 

My  voice  was  calling; 
Every  side 

The  trees  were  falling; 


1 8  Farm  Festivals. 

"  Cease,''  I  said, 

"Your  barbarous  cheer, 
And  bow  the  head, 

For  death  is  near !" 
And  the  oak-tree  gazed  at  its  steadily  gaping  wound, 

And  nursed  the  stinging  pain  that  it  could  not  tell ; 
Then  grandly  drooped,  with  an  agony-moaning  sound, 

And  dashed  and  crashed  through  the  brush,  and,  thundering,  fell. 

Wherever  are  heard  my  voice's  ominous  sounds, 

The  half-clad  feet  of  the  homeless  millions  run  ; 
They  pitch  their  tents  of  wood  on  my  battle  grounds — 
They  eat  the  fruits  of  the  work  that  I  have  done. 
Toil  that  dares 

Is  tenfold  glorious ; 
All  earth  shares 

Its  march  victorious ; 
"  Haste  !"  it  cries  : 

"  Your  venturous  deeds 
Will  win  a  prize 

For  human  needs  !" 
So  I  strike  the  key-note  of  the  national  song 

Of  empires  that  shall  star  through  future  years ; 
And  the  artist-tribes  do  but  my  strains  prolong, 
And  I  am  the  pioneer  of  pioneers. 

II. 

Came  speeches,  then,  by  withered  men, 

In  language  brusque  and  plain  ; 
And,  as  it  happ'd,  most  of  them  tapped 

The  reminiscence  vein. 
Age  loves  through  ways  of  olden  days 

With  Memory's  lamp  to  grope ; 
As  proud  Youth  peers  at  future  years, 

Lit  by  the  torch  of  Hope. 
How  far  between  are  Memory's  scene 

And  Hope's  unclouded  view ! 
False  is  each  one,  and  overdone — 

Yet  both  are  wondrous  true. 


The  Festival  of  Reminiscence. 

And  toward  the  close,  there  calmly  rose 

A  sad-eyed  veteran  hoary, 
And  with  a  fair  and  modest  air, 

Told 

THE   FIRST   SETTLER'S   STORY. 

It  ain't  the  funniest  thing,  a  man  can  do — 
Existing  in  a  country  when  it's  new ; 
Nature — who  moved  in  first — a  good  long  while- 
Has  things  already  somewhat  her  own  style, 
And  she  don't  want  her  woodland  splendors  battered, 
Her  rustic  furniture  broke  up  and  scattered, 
Her  paintings,  which  long  years  ago  were  done 
By  that  old  splendid  artist-king,  the  Sun, 
Torn  down  and  dragged  in  Civilization's  gutter, 
Or  sold  to  purchase  settlers'  bread-and-butter. 
She  don't  want  things  exposed,  from  porch  to  closet — 
And  so  she  kind  o'  nags  the  man  who  does  it. 
She  carries  in  her  pockets  bags  of  seeds, 
As  general  agent  of  the  thriftiest  weeds; 
She  sends  her  blackbirds,  in  the  early  morn, 
To  superintend  his  fields  of  planted  corn  ; 
She  gives  him  rain  past  any  duck's  desire — 
Then  may  be  several  weeks  of  quiet  fire ; 
She  sails  mosquitoes — leeches  perched  on  wings — 
To  poison  him  with  blood-devouring  stings; 
She  loves  her  ague-muscle  to  display, 
And  shake  him  up — say  every  other  day ; 
With  thoughtful,  conscientious  care,  she  makes 
Those  travellin'  poison-bottles,  rattlesnakes ; 
She  finds  time,  'mongst  her  other  family  cares, 
To  keep  in  stock  good  wild-cats,  wolves,  and  bears; 
She  spurns  his  offered  hand,  with  silent  gibes, 
And  compromises  with  the  Indian  tribes 
(For  they  who've  wrestled  with  his  bloody  art 
Say  Nature  always  takes  an  Indian's  part). 
In  short,  her  toil  is  every  day  increased, 
To  scare  him  out,  and  hustle  him  back  East; 


2O  Farm  Festivals. 

Till  fin'lly,  it  appears  to  her  some  day, 
That  he  has  made  arrangements  for  to  stay  ; 
Then  she  turns  'round,  as  sweet  as  anything, 
And  takes  her  new-made  friend  into  the  ring, 
And  changes  from  a  snarl  into  a  purr : 
From  mother-in-law  to  mother,  as  it  were. 

Well,  when  I  first  infested  this  retreat, 
Tilings  to  my  view  looked  frightful  incomplete; 
But  Nature  seemed  quite  cheerful,  all  about  me, 
A-carrying  on  her  different  trades  without  me. 
These  words  the  forest  seemed  at  me  to  throw  : 
"  Sit  down  and  rest  awhile  before  you  go ;" 
From  bees  to  trees  the  whole  woods  seemed  to  s;iy, 
"  You're  welcome  here  till  you  can  get  away, 
But  not  for  time  of  any  large  amount ; 
So  don't  be  hanging  round  on  our  account." 
But  I  had  come  with  heart-thrift  in  my  song, 
And  brought  my  wife  and  plunder  right  along; 
I  hadn't  a  round-trip  ticket  to  go  back, 
And  if  I  had,  there  wasn't  no  railroad  track ; 
And  drivin'  east  was  what  I  couldn't  endure : 
I  hadn't  started  on  a  circular  tour. 

My  girl-wife  was  as  brave  as  she  was  good, 
And  helped  me  every  blessed  wray  she  could ; 
She  seemed  to  take  to  every  rough  old  tree, 
As  sing'lar  as  when  first  she  took  to  me. 
She  kep'  our  little  log-house  neat  as  wax ; 
And  once  I  caught  her  fooling  with  my  axe. 
She  learned  a  hundred  masculine  things  to  do: 
She  aimed  a  shot-gun  pretty  middlin'  true, 
Although,  in  spite  of  my  express'  desire, 
She  always  shut  her  eyes  before  she'd  fire. 
She  hadn't  the  muscle  (though  she  had  the  heart) 
In  out-door  work  to  take  an  active  part ; 
Though  in  our  firm  of  Duty  &  Endeavor, 
She  wasn't  no  silent  partner  whatsoever. 


The  Festival  of  Reminiscence. 


21 


-.E     SCRUB     CLASS     IN     THE     SUNDAY-SCHOOL." 


When  I  was  logging,  burning,  choppin'  wood — 
She'd  linger  'round,  and  help  me  all  she  could, 
And  kept  me  fresh-ambitious  all  the  while, 
And  lifted  tons,  just  with  her  voice  and  smile. 
With  no  desire  my  glory  for  to  rob, 
She  used  to  stan'  around  and  boss  the  job ; 
And  when  first-class  success  my  hands  befell, 
Would  proudly  say,  "  We  did  that  pretty  well!" 
She  was  delicious,  both  to  hear  and  see — 
That  pretty  wife-girl  that  kep'  house  for  me ! 


22  Farm  Festivals. 

Sundays,  we  didn't  propose,  for  lack  o'  church, 
To  have  our  souls  left  wholly  in  the  lurch  ; 
And  so  I  shaved  and  dressed  up,  well's  I  could, 
And  did  a  day's  work  trying  to  be  good. 
My  wife  was  always  bandbox-sleek;   and  when 
Our  fat  old  bull's-eye  watch  said  half-past  ten 
('Twas  always  varying  from  the  narrow  way, 
And  lied  on  Sundaj'S,  same  as  any  day), 
The  family  Bible  from  its  high  perch  started 
(The  one  her  mother  gave  her  when  they  parted), 
The  hymn-book,  full  of  rnusic-balm  and  fire — 
The  one  she  used  to  sins*  in  in  the  choir — 

O 

One  I  sang  with  her  from — I've  got  it  yet — 

The  very  first  time  that  we  really  met ; 

(I  recollect,  when  first  our  voices  gibed, 

A  feeling  that  declines  to  be  described  ! 

And  when  our  eyes  met — near  the  second  verse — 

A  kind  of  old-acquaintance  look  in  hers, 

And  something  went  from  mine,  which,  I  declare, 

I  never  even  knew  before  wras  there — 

And  when  our  hands  touched — slight  as  slight  could  be- 

A  streak  o'  sweetened  lightnin'  thrilled  through  me  ! 

But  that's  enough  of  that;  perhaps,  even  now. 

You'll  think  I'm  softer  than  the  law  '11  allow; 

But  you'll  protect  an  old  man  with  his  age, 

For  yesterday  I  turned  my  eightieth  page; 

Besides,  there'd  be  less  couples  falling  out 

If  such  things  were  more  freely  talked  about.) 

AVell,  we  would  take  these  books,  sit  down  alone, 
And  have  a  two-horse  meeting,  all  our  own  ; 
And  read  our  verses,  sing  our  sacred  rhymes, 
And  make  it  seem  a  good  deal  like  old  times. 
But  finally  across  her  face  there'd  glide 
A  sort  of  sorry  shadow  from  inside; 
And  once  she  dropped  her  head,  like  a  tired  flower, 
Upon  my  arm,  and  cried  a  half  an  hour. 
I  humored  her  until  she  had  it  out, 
And  didn't  ask  her  what  it  was  about. 


The  Festival  of  Reminiscence. 

I  knew  right  well :  our  reading,  song,  and  prayer 
Had  brought  the  old  times  back,  too  true  and  square. 
The  large  attended  meetings  morn  and  night; 
The  spiritual  and  mental  warmth  and  light; 
Her  father,  in  his  pew,  next  to  the  aisle ; 
Her  mother,  with  the  mother  of  her  smile; 
Her  brothers'  sly,  forbidden  Sunday  glee ; 
Her  sisters,  e'en  a'most  as  sweet  as  she ; 
Her  girl  and  boy  friends,  not  too  warm  or  cool ; 
Her  little  scrub  class  in  the  Sunday-school; 
The  social,  arid  the  singings  and  the  ball; 
And  happy  home-cheer  waiting  for  them  all— 
These  marched  in  close  procession  through  her  mind, 
And  didn't  forget  to  leave  their  tracks  behind. 
You  married  men — there's  many  in  my  view — 
Don't  think  your  wife  can  all  wrap  up  in  you, 
Don't  deem,  though  close  her  life  to  yours  may  grow, 
That  you  are  all  the  folks  she  wants  to  know ; 
Or  think  your  stitches  form  the  only  part 
Of  the  crochet-work  of  a  woman's  heart. 
Though  married  souls  each  other's  lives  may  burnish, 
Each  needs  some  help  the  other  cannot  furnish. 

"Well,  neighborhoods  meant  counties,  in  those  days; 
The  roads  didn't  have  accommodating  ways; 
And  maybe  weeks  would  pass  before  she'd  see — 
And  much  less  talk  with — any  one  but  me. 
The  Indians  sometimes  showed  their  sun-baked  faces, 
But  they  didn't  teem  with  conversational  graces; 
Some  ideas  from  the  birds  and  trees  she  stole, 
But  'twasn't  like  talking  with  a  human  soul; 
And  finally  I  thought  that  I  could  trace 
A  half  heart-hunger  peering  from  her  face. 
Then  she  would  drive  it  back,  and  shut  the  door; 
Of  course  that  only  made  me  see  it  more. 
'Twas  hard  to  see  her  give  her  life  to  mine, 
Making  a  steady  effort  not  to  pine ; 
'Twas  hard  to  hear  that  laugh  bloom  out  each  minute, 
And  recognize  the  seeds  of  sorrow  in  it. 


24  Farm  Festivals. 

No  misery  makes  a  close  observer  mourn, 
Like  hopeless  grief  with  hopeful  courage  borne ; 
There's  nothing  sets  the  sympathies  to  paining, 
Like  a  complaining  woman,  uncomplaining ! 
It  always  draws  my  breath  out  into  sighs, 
To  see  a  brave  look  in  a  woman's  eyes. 

Well,  she  went  on,  as  plucky  as  could  be, 
Fighting  the  foe  she  thought  I  did  not  see, 
And  using  her  heart-horticultural  powers 
To  turn  that  forest  to  a  bed  of  flowers. 
You  can  not  check  an  unadmitted  sigh, 
And  so  I  had  to  soothe  her  on  the  sly, 
And  secretly  to  help  her  draw  her  load ; 
And  soon  it  came  to  be  an  up-hill  road. 
Hard  work  bears  hard  upon   the  average  pulse, 
Even  with  satisfactory  results; 
But.  when  effects  are  scarce,  the  heavy  strain 
Falls  dead  and  solid  on  the  heart  and  brain. 
And  when  we're  bothered,  it  will  oft  occur 
We  seek  blame-timber;  and  I  lit  on  her; 
And  looked  at  her  with  daily  lessening  favor, 
For  what  I  knew  she  couldn't  help,  to  save  her. 
(We  often — what  our  minds  should  blush  with  shame  for- 
Blame  people  most  for  what  they're  least  to  blame  for.) 
Then  there'd  a  misty,  jealous  thought  occur, 
Because  I  wasn't  Earth  and  Heaven  to  her, 
And  all  the  planets  that  about  us  hovered, 
And  several  more  that  hadn't  been  discovered; 
And  my  hard  muscle-labor,  day  by  day, 
Deprived  good-nature  of  the  right  of  way; 
And  'tain't  no  use — this  trying  to  conceal 
From  hearts  that  love  us — what  our  own  hearts  feel ; 
They  can't  escape  close  observation's  mesh— 
And  thoughts  have  tongues  that  are  not  made  of  flesh. 
And  so  ere  long  she  caught  the  half-grown  fact : 
Commenced  observing  how  I  didn't  act; 
And  silently  began  to  grieve  and  doubt 
O'er  old  attentions  now  sometimes  left  out — 


The  Festival -of  Reminiscence.  25 

Some  kind  caress — some  little  petting  ways — 

Commenced  a-staying  in  on  rainy  days 

(I  did  not  see  't  so  clear  then,  I'll  allow; 

But  I  can  trace  it  rather  acc'rate  now) ; 

And  Discord,  when  he  once  had  called  and  seen  us, 

Came  round  quite  often,  and  edged  in  between  us. 

One  night,  I  came  from  work  unusual  late, 
Too  hungry  and  too  tired  to  feel  first-rate — 
Her  supper  struck  me  wrong  (though  I'll  allow 
She  hadn't  much  to  strike  with,  anyhow) ; 
And  when  I  went  to  milk  the  cows,  and  found 
They'd  wandered  from  their  usual  feeding  ground, 
And  maybe  'd  left  a  few  long  miles  behind  'em, 
"Which  I  must  copy,  if  I  meant  to  find  'em, 
Flash-quick  the  stay-chains  of  my  temper  broke, 
And  in  a  trice  these  hot  words  I  had  spoke: 
."You  ought  to  've  kept  the  animals  in  view, 
And  drove  'em  in  ;   you'd  nothing  else  to  do. 
The  heft  of  all  our  life  on  me  must  fall; 
You  just  lie  round,  and  let  me  do  it  all." 

That  speech — it  hadn't  been  gone  a  half  a  minute, 
Before  I  saw  the  cold  black  poison  in  it ; 
And  I'd  have  given  all  I  had,  and  more, 
To  've  only  safely  got  it  back  in-door. 
I'm  now  what  most  folks  "  well-to-do "  would  call : 
I  feel  to-day  as  if  I'd  give  it  all, 
Provided  I  through  fifty  years  might  reach, 
And  kill  and  bury  that  half-minute  speech. 
Boys  flying  kites  haul  in  their  white-winged  birds; 
You  can't  do  that  way  when  you're  flying  words. 
Things  that  we  think  may  sometimes  fall  back  dead  ; 
But  God  himself  can't  kill  them  when  they're  said. 

She  handed  back  no  words,  as  I  could  hear ; 
She  didn't  frown — she  didn't  shed  a  tear ; 
Half  proud,  half  crushed,  she  stood  and  looked  me  o'er, 
Like  some  one  she  had  never  seen  before ! 


26  Farm  Festivals. 

But  such  a  sudden  anguish-lit  surprise 

1  never  viewed  before  in  human  eyes. 

(I've  seen  it  oft  enough  since,  in  a  dream ; 

It  sometimes  wakes  me,  like  a  midnight  scream !) 

That  night,  while  theoretically  sleeping, 
I  half  heard  and  half  felt  that  she  was  weeping; 
And  my  heart  then  projected  a  design 
To  softly  draw  her  face  up  close  to  mine, 
And  beg  of  her  forgiveness  to  bestow, 
For  saying  what  we  both  knew  wasn't  so. 
I've  got  enough  of  this  world's  goods  to  do  me, 
And  make  my  'nephews  painfully  civil  to  me : 
I'd  give  it  all  to  know  she  only  knew 
How  near  I  came  to  what  was  square  and  true. 
But  somehow,  every  single  time  I'd  try, 
Pride  would  appear,  and  kind  o'  catch  my  eye, 
And  hold  me,  on  the  edge  of  my  advance, 
With  the  cold  steel  of  one  sly,  scornful  glance. 

Next  morning,  when,  stone-faced,  but  heavy-hearted, 
With  dinner  pail  and  sharpened  axe  I  started 
Away  for  my  day's  work — she  watched  the  door, 
And  followed  me  half-way  to  it  or  more ; 
And  I  was  just  a-turning  round  at  this, 
And  asking  for  my  usual  good-bye  kiss ; 
But  on  her  lip  I  saw  a  proudish  curve, 
And  in  her  eye  a  shadow  of  reserve ; 
And  she  had  shown — perhaps  half  unawares — 
Some  little  independent  breakfast  airs — 
And  so  the  usual  parting  didn't  occur, 
Although  her  eyes  invited  me  to  her, 
Or  rather  half  invited  me;   for  she 
Didrrt  advertise  to  furnish  kisses  free: 
You  always  had — that  is,  I  had — to  pay 
Full  market  price,  and  go  more  'n  half  the  way. 
So,  with  a  short  "  Good-bye,"  I  shut  the  door, 
And  left  her  as  I  never  had  before. 


The  Festival  of  Reminiscence.  2  7 

Now,  when  a  man  works  with  his  muscle  smartly, 
It  makes  him  up  into  machinery,  partly ; 
And  any  trouble  he  may  have  on  hand 
Gets  deadened  like,  and  easier  to  stand. 
And  though  the  memory  of  last  night's  mistake 
Bothered  me  with  a  dull  and  heavy  ache, 
I  all  the  forenoon  gave  my  strength  full  rein, 
And  made  the  wounded  trees  bear  half  the  pain. 
But  when  at  noon  my  lunch  I  came  to  eat, 
Put  up  by  her  so  delicately  neat — 
Choicer,  somewhat,  than  yesterday's  had  been, 
And  some  fresh,  sweet-eyed  pansies  she'd  put  in— 
"  Tender  and  pleasant  thoughts,"  I  knew  they  meant— 
It  seemed  as  if  her  kiss  with  me  she'd  sent; 
Then  I  became  once  more  her  humble  lover, 
And  said,  "To-night  I'll  ask  forgiveness  of  her." 

I  went  home  over-early  on  that  eve, 
Having  contrived  to  make  myself  believe, 
By  various  signs  I  kind  o'  knew  and  guessed, 
A  thunder-storm  was  coming  from  the  west. 
('Tis  strange,  when  one  sly  reason  fills  the  heart, 
How  many  honest  ones  will  take  its  part ; 
A  dozen  first-class  reasons  said  'twas  right 
That  I  should  strike  home  early  on  that  night.) 

Half  out  of  breath,  the  cabin  door  I  swung, 
With  tender  heart-words  trembling  on  my  tongue; 
But  all  within  looked  desolate  and  bare; 
My  house  had  lost  its  soul — she  was  not  there! 
A  pencilled  note  wras  on  the  table  spread, 
And  these  are  something  like  the  words  it  said  : 
"The  cows  have  strayed  away  again,  I  fear; 
I  watched  them  pretty  close ;   don't  scold  me,  dear. 
And  where  they  are,  I  think  I  nearly  know : 
I  heard  the  bell  not  very  long  ago — 
*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

I've  hunted  for  them  all  the  afternoon  ; 
I'll  try  once  more — I  think  I'll  find  them  soon. 


2 8  Farm  Festivals. 

Dear,  if  a  burden  I  have  been  to  you, 
And  haven't  helped  you  as  I  ought  to  do, 
Let  old-time  memories  my  forgiveness  plead ; 
I've  tried  to  do  my  best — I  have,  indeed. 
Darling,  piece  out  with  love  the  strength  I  lack, 
And  have  kind  words  for  me  when  I  get  back." 

Scarce  did  I  give  this  letter  sight  and  tongue — 
Some  swift-blown  rain-drops  to  the  window  clung, 
And  from  the  clouds  a  rough,  deep  growl  proceeded ; 
My  thunder-storm  had  come,  now  'twasn't  needed. 
I  rushed  out-door ;    the  air  was  stained  with  black ; 
Night  had  come  early,  on  the  storm-cloud's  back. 
And  every  thing  kept  dimming  to  the  sight, 
Save  when  the  clouds  threw  their  electric  light; 
When,  for  a  flash,  so  clean-cut  was  the  view, 
I'd  think  I  saw  her — knowing  'twas  not  true. 
Through  my  small  clearing  dashed  wide  sheets  of  spray, 
As  if  the  ocean  waves  had  lost  their  way  ; 
Scarcely  a  pause  the  thunder-battle  made, 
In  the  bold  clamor  of  its  cannonade. 
And  she,  while  I  was  sheltered,  dry  and  warm, 
Was  somewhere  in  the  clutches  of  this  storm ! 
She  who,  when  storm-frights  found  her  at  her  best, 
Had  always  hid  her  white  face  on  my  breast ! 

My  dog,  who'd  skirmished  'round  me  all  the  day, 
Now,  crouched  and  whimpering,  in  a  corner  lay; 
I  dragged  him  by  the  collar  to  the  wall— 
I  pressed  his  quivering  muzzle  to  a  shawl— 
"Track  her,  old  boy!"  I  shouted:    and  he  whined, 
Matched  eyes  with  me,  as  if  to  read  my  mind- 
Then  with  a  yell  went  tearing  through  the  wood. 
I  followed  him,  as  faithful  as  I  could. 
No  pleasure-trip  was  that,  through  flood  and  flame ! 
We  raced  with  death  ; — we  hunted  noble  game. 
All  night  we  dragged  the  woods  without  avail; 
The  ground  got  drenched — we  could  not  keep  the  trail. 


The  Festival  of  Reminiscence.  29 

Three  times  again  my  cabin  home  I  found, 
Half  hoping  she  might  be  there,  safe  and  sound ; 
But  each  time  'twas  an  unavailing  care: 
My  house  had  lost  its  soul ;   she  was  not  there ! 

"When,  climbing  the  wet  trees,  next  morning-sun 
Laughed  at  the  ruin  that  the  night  had  done, 
Bleeding  and  drenched — by  toil  and  sorrow  bent — 
Back  to  what  used  to  be  my  home  I  went. 
But,  as  I  neared  our  little  clearing-ground — 
Listen  ! — I  heard  the  cow-bell's  tinkling  sound ; 
The  cabin  door  was  just  a  bit  ajar; 
It  gleamed  upon  my  glad  eyes  like  a  star! 
"Brave  heart,"  I  said,  "for  such  a  fragile  form! 
She  made  them  guide  her  homeward  through  the  storm !" 
Such  pangs  of  joy  I  never  felt  before: 
"You've  come!"  I  shouted,  and  rushed  through  the  door. 

Yes,  she  had  come — and  gone  again. — She  lay 
With  all  her  young  life  crushed  and  wrenched  away- 
Lay — the  heart-ruins  of  our  home  among — 
Not  far  from  where  I  killed  her  with   my  tongue. 
The  rain  drops  glittered  'mid  her  hair's  long  strands, 
The  forest-thorns  had  torn  her  feet  and  hands, 
And  'midst  the  tears — brave  tears — that  one  could  trace 
Upon  the  pale  but  sweetly  resolute  face, 
I  once  again  the  mournful  words  could  read — 
"  I've  tried  to  do  my  best — I  have,  indeed." 

And  now  I'm  mostly  done  :  my  story's  o'er ; 
Part  of  it  never  breathed  the  air  before. 
'Tisn't  over-usual,  it  must  be  allowed, 
To  volunteer  heart-history  to  a  crowd, 
And  scatter  'mongst  them  confidential  tears, 
But  you'll  protect  an  old  man  with  his  years; 
And  wheresoe'er  this  story's  voice  can  reach, 
This  is  the  sermon  I  would  have  it  preach : 

Boys  flying  kites  haul  in  their  white-winged  birds; 
You  can't  do  that  way  when  you're  flying  words. 


30  Farm  Festivals. 

"  Careful  with  fire,"  is  good  advice,  we  know: 
"  Careful  with  words,"  is  ten  times  doubly  so. 
Thoughts  unexpressed  may  sometimes  fall  back  dead ; 
But  God  himself  can't  kill  them  when  they're  said  ! 


VKS,   SHE     HAD     COMK AND     GONK     AGAIN." 


You  have  my  life-grief:  do  not  think  a  minute 
'Twas  told  to  take  up  time.     There's  business  in  it. 
It  sheds  advice;  whoe'er  will  take  and  live  it, 
Is  welcome  to  the  pain  it  costs  to  give  it. 


The  Festival  of  Reminiscence. 

III. 

With  added  calm,  untangling  from 

The  twists  of  bench  repose, 
"When  silence  Called,  serene  and  bald, 

The  President  arose  ; 
And  with  bowed  head  he  humbly  said, 

"  To  help  this  rneetin'  'long, 
My  second  one,  James  Madison, 

Will  now  submit  a  song." 
James  M.  appeared,  his  infant  beard 

Hopes  for  the  future  shedding, 
And  sung  in  strains  of  anxious  pains 

ELIPHALET  CHAPIN'S  WEDDING. 

'Twas  when  the  leaves  of  Autumn  were  by  tempest-fingers  picked, 
Eliphalet  Chapin  started  to  become  a  benedict ; 

With  an  ancient  two-ox  wagon  to  bring  back  his  new-found  goods, 
He   hawed   and  gee'd   and  floundered   through   some   twenty   miles 

woods ; 

With  prematrimonial  ardor  he  his  horned  steeds  did  press, 
But  Eliphalet's  wedding  journey  didn't  bristle  with  success. 

Oh  no,  woe,  woe  ! 

With  candor  to  digress, 
Eliphalet's  wedding  journey  didn't  tremble  with  success. 

He  had  not  carried  five  miles  his  mouth-disputed  face, 
When  his  wedding  garments  parted  in  some  inconvenient  place ; 
He'd  have  given  both  his  oxen  to  a  wife  that  now  was  dead, 
For  her  company  two  minutes  with  a  needle  and  a  thread. 
But  he  pinned  them  up,  with  twinges  of  occasional  distress, 
Feeling  that  his  wedding  wouldn't  be  a  carnival  of  dress: 
"Haw,  Buck!" 

Gee,  Bright ! 

Derned  pretty  mess !" 
No ;   Eliphalet  was  not  strictly  a  spectacular  success. 

He  had  not  gone  a  ten-mile  when  a  wheel  demurely  broke, 
A  disunited  family  of  felloe,  hub,  and  spoke; 


Farm  Festivals. 


It  joined,  with  flattering  prospects,  the  Society  of  Wrecks; 
And  he  had  to  cut  a  sapling,  and  insert  it  'neath  the  "ex. 


"  NOW,  WHEN     HE     DROVE     HIS     EQUIPAGE     UP    TO     HIS     SWEETHEART'S     DOOR.' 


So  he  plowed  the  hills  and  valleys  with  that  Doric  wheel  and  tire, 
Feeling  that  his  wedding  journey  was  riot  all  he  could  desire. 
"  Gee,  Bright ! 

G'long,  Buck !" 

He  shouted,  hoarse  with  ire  : 
Xn ;   Eliphalet's  wedding  journey  none  in  candor  could  admire! 


The  Festival  of  Reminiscence.  33 

He  had  not  gone  fifteen  miles  with  extended  face  forlorn, 

When  Night  lay  down  upon  him  hard,  and  kept  him  there  till  morn  ; 

And  when  the  daylight  chuckled  at  the  gloom  within  his  mind, 

One  ox  was  "  Strayed  or  Stolen,"  and  the  other  hard  to  find. 

So  yoking  Buck  as  usual,  he  assumed  the  part  of  Bright 

(Constituting  a  menagerie  diverting  to  the  sight) ; 

With  "Haw,  Buck  ! 

Gee,  Buck ! 

ShaVt  get  there  till  night !" 
No ;   Eliphalet's  wedding  journey  was  not  one  intense  delight. 

Now,  when  he  drove  his  equipage  up  to  his  sweetheart's  door, 
The  wedding  guests  had  tired  and  gone,  just  half  an  hour  before; 
The  preacher  had  from  sickness  an  unprofitable  call, 
And  had  sent  a  voice  proclaiming  that  he  couldn't  come  at  all ; 
The  parents  had  been  prejudiced  by  some  one,  more  or  less, 
And   the    sire    the    bridegroom    greeted    with    a    different    word    from 
"  bless." 

"  Blank  your  head, 

You  blank  !"  he  said  ; 

"  We'll  break  this  off,  I  guess  !" 
No;   Eliphalet's  wedding  was  not  an  unqualified  success. 

Now,  when  the  bride  saw  him  arrive,  she  shook  her  crimson  locks, 
And  vowed  to  goodness  gracious  she  would  never  wed  an  ox  ; 
And  with  a  vim  deserving  rather  better  social  luck, 
She  eloped  that  day  by  daylight  with  a  swarthy  Indian  "  buck," 
With  the  presents  in  the  pockets  of  her  woolen  wedding-dress ; 
And  "  Things  ain't  mostly  with  me,"  quoth  Eliphalet,  "  I  confess." 

No — no ; 

As  things  go, 

No  fair  mind  'twould  impress, 
That  Eliphalet  Chapin's  wedding  was  an  unalloyed  success. 

Eliphalet  Chapin  started  home — 

IV. 

Once  more  unbent  the  President, 
With  face  grown  sadly  long, 


34  Farm  Festivals. 

And  said,  "  How  many  more,  if  any, 

Such  verses  Las  that  song?" 
With  smile  unchanged,  the  minstrel  ranged 

Four  fingers  and  a  thumb, 
And  said,  "  There'll  be  just  ninety -three 

More  stanzas  yet  to  come." 
With  look  of  dread,  the  father  said, 

"  You  need  not  sing  'em  here, 
But  get  your  man  home,  if  you  can, 

Some  time  this  coming  year." 
Without  a  frown,  James  M.  sat  down, 

Stripped  of  his  vocal  glory  ; 
And  then  an  old  rough  patriarch  told 

THE   SECOND   SETTLER'S   STORY. 

A  han'some  night,  with  the  trees  snow-white, 

And  the  time  say  ten  or  more, 
Saw  wife  and  me,  with  a  well-fed  glee, 

Drive  home  from  Jackson's  store. 
There  was  wife  and  I,  and  some  things  folks  buy, 

And  our  horses  and  our  sleigh  ; 
And  the  moon  went  along  with  its  lantern  strong, 

And  lit  us  as  light  as  day. 
We'd  made  roads  good,  drawin'  logs  and  wood, 

For  thirty  years  ago ; 
And  the  wear  and  tear  had  sustained  repair 

From  Road  Commissioner  Snow. 
As  we  trotted  alongr  our  two-thread  song 

Wove  in  with  the  sleigh-bells'  chimes ; 
Our  laugh  run  free,  and  it  seemed  to  me 

We  was  havin'  first-rate  times. 

I  said  "first-rate,"  but  I  do  not  say  't 

On  a  thoroughly  thorough  plan  ; 
I  had  won  my  wife,  in  legitimate  strife, 

Away  from  her  first  young  man. 
'Twas  a  perfect  rout,  and  a  fair  cut-out, 
.  AVith  nothing  sneaky  or  wrong; 


The  Festival  of  Reminiscence.  35 

But  I  wondered  so  as  to  whether  or  no 

She  had  brought  her  heart  along! 
A  woman  half-won  is  worse  than  none, 

With  another  man  keepin'  part ; 
It's  nothin'  to  gain  her  body  and  brain, 

If  she  can't  throw  in  her  heart. 
And  I  felt  and  thought  that  I  sometimes  caught 

A  dullness  out  o'  her  mind  ; 
She  was  too  much  prone  to  tliinkin'  alone, 

And  rather  too  coldly  kind. 

But  things  seemed  right  this  partic'lar  night, 

More  so  than  with  average  folks  ; 
And  we  filled  the  air  with  music  to  spare, 

And  complimentary  jokes. 
Till,  as  I  reckoned,  about  a  second 

.  All  happened  to  be  still— 
A  cry  like  the  yell  of  hounds  from  hell 

Came  over  a  neighboring  hill. 

o  O 

It  cut  like  a  blade  through  the  leafless  shade  ; 

It  chilled  us  stiff  with  dread  ; 
We  looked  loud  cries  in  each  other's  eyes— 

And — "Wbfoesf"  was  all  we  said. 
The  \volf !   grim  scamp  and  forest-tramp — 

Why  made,  I  never  could  see ; 
Beneath  brute  level — half  dog,  half  devil — 

The  Indian-animal,  he ! 
And  this  was  a  year  with  a  winter  more  drear 

Than  any  we'd  ever  known ; 
It  was  '43 ;   and  the  wolves,  you  see, 

Had  a  famine  of  their  own. 
That  season,  at  least,  of  man  and  beast 

They  captured  many  a  one ; 
And  we  knew,  by  the  bite  of  their  voice  that  night, 

That  they  hadn't  come  out  for  fun. 

My  horses  felt  need  of  all  their  speed, 
And  every  muscle  strained; 


36 


Farm  Festivals. 

But,  with  all  they  could  do,  I  felt  and  knew 

That  the  hungry  devils  gained. 
'Twas  but  two  miles  more  to  our  own  house  door, 

Where  shelter  we  would  find, 
When  I  saw  the  pack  close  on  to  our  track, 

Not  a  hundred  yards  behind. 
Then  I  silent  prayed :    "  O  God !   for  aid- 
Just  a  trifle — I  request ! 
Just  give  us,  You  know,  an  even  show, 

And  I'll  undertake  the  rest." 
Then  I  says  to  my  wife,  "Now  drive  for  life! 

They're  a-comin'  over-nigh ! 
And  I  will  stand,  gun  and  axe  in  hand, 

And  be  the  first  to  die." 
As  the  ribbons  she  took,  she  gave  me  a  look 

Sweet  memory  makes  long-lived : 
I  thought,  "  I'll  allow  she  loves  me  now ; 

The  rest  of  her  heart  has  arrived." 
I  felt  I  could  fight  the  whole  o'  the  night, 

And  never  flinch  or  tire ! 
In  danger,  mind  you,  a  woman  behind  you 

Can  turn  your  blood  to  fire. 

When  they  reached  the  right  spot,  I  left  'em  a  shot, 

But  it  wasn't  a  steady  aim — 
'Twasn't  really  mine — and  they  tipped  me  a  whine, 

And  came  on  all  the  same. 
Their  leader  sped  a  little  ahead, 

Like  a  gray  knife  from  its  sheath ; 
With  a  resolute  eye,  and  a  hungry  cry, 

And  an  excellent  set  of  teeth. 
A  moment  I  gazed — my  axe  I  raised — 

It  hissed  above  my  head — 
Crunching  low  and  dull,  it  split  his  skull, 

And  the  villain  fell  back  dead  \ 
It  checked  them  there,  and  a  minute  to  spare 

We  had,  and  a  second  besides: 
With  rites  unsaid  they  buried  their  dead 

In  the  graves  of  their  own  lank  hides. 


The  Festival  of  Reminiscence.  39 

They  made  for  him  a  funeral  grim — 

Himself  the  unbaked  meat; 
And  when  they  were  through  with  their  barbecue, 

They  started  for  more  to  eat ! 

With  voices  aflame,  once  more  they  came; 

But  faster  still  we  sped, 
And  we  and  our  traps  dashed  home  perhaps 

A  half  a  minute  ahead. 
My  wife  I  bore  through  the  open  door, 

Then  turned  to  the  hearth  clean  swept, 
Where  a  log-fire  glowed  in  its  brick  abode — 

By  my  mother  faithfully  kept; 
From  its  depths  raising  two  fagots  blazing, 

I  leaped  like  lightning  back ; 
I  dashed  the  brands,  with  my  blistering  hands, 

In  the  teeth  of  the  howling  pack. 
"  Come  on  !"  I  said,  "  with  your  tierce  lips  red, 

Flecked  white  with  poison  foam  ! 
Waltz  to  me  now,  and  just  notice  how 

A  man  fights  for  his  home !" 
They  shrunk  with  fright  from  the  feel  and  sight 

O'  this  sudden  volley  of  flame ; 
With  a  yell  of  dread,  they  sneaked  and  fled, 

As  fast  as  ever  they  came. 

As  I  turned  around,  my  wife  I  found 

Not  the  eighth  of  an  inch  away  : 
She  looked  so  true  and  tender,  I  knew 

That  her  heart  had  come — to  stay. 
She  nestled  more  nigh,  with  love-lit  eye, 

And  passionate-quivering  lip ; 
And  I  saw  that  the  lout  that  I  cut  out 

Had  probably  lost  his  grip. 
Doubt  moved  away,  for  a  permanent  stay, 

And  never  was  heard  of  more ! 
My  soul  must  own  that  it  had  not  known 

The  soul  of  my  wife  before. 


Farm  Festivals. 

As  I  staunched  the  steam  on  my  foaming  team, 

These  thoughts  hitched  to  my  mind: 
Below  or  above  some  woman's  love, 

How  little  -in  life  we  find  ! 
A  man  '11  go  far  to  plant  a  star 

Where  fame's  wide  sky  is  thrown, 
But  a  longer  way,  for  some  woman  to  say, 

"  I  love  you  for  my  own." 
And  oft  as  I've  worked,  this  thought  has  lurked 

'Round  me,  with  substantial  aid : 
Of  the  best  and  worst  men  have  done  since  first 

This  twofold  world  was  made : 
Of  the  farms  they've  cleared — of  the  buildin's  reared 

The  city  splendors  wrought — 
Of  the  battle-field,  where,  loth  to  yield, 

The  right  'gainst  the  right  has  fought ; 
Of  the  measured  strains  of  the  lightning-trains, 

The  clack  of  the  quick-spoke  wire— 
Of  the  factory's  clash  and  the  forge's  flash, 

An'  the  furnace's  plumes  of  fire; 
Be  't  great  or  small — nine-tenths  of  all 

Of  every  trade  and  art, 
Be  't  right  or  wrong — is  merely  a  song 

To  win  some  woman's  heart. 


V. 

With  haste  well  meant,  the  President 

Laboriously  arose, 
And  said,  "  'Tis  near  the  time,  I  fear, 

This  meetin'  ought  to  close. 
But  ere  we  grieve  this  spot  to  leave, 

To  help  the  meetin'  'long, 
My  youngest  one,  T.  Jefferson, 

Will  c0/itribute  a  song." 
Like  sheep  that  fly,  when  lingers  nigh 

Some  foe  their  leader  fears ; 
Like  boys  at  play,  when  far  away 

Parental  wrath  appears; 


The  Festival  of  Reminiscence.  41 

Like  any  thing  that  fright  can  bring 

Into  the  average  throng, 
The  crowd  withdrew  from  casual  view, 

To  dodge  the  threatened  song. 
With  better  pluck  than  vocal  luck, 

And  face  of  hardy  cheer, 
Young  Thomas  J.  closed  out  the  day 

With 

SLEEP,  OLD   PIONEER  ! 

When  the  Spring-time  touch  is  lightest, 
When  the  Summer-eyes  are  brightest, 

Or  the  Autumn  sings  most  drear; 
When  the  Winter's  hair  is  whitest, 

Sleep,  old  pioneer  ! 
Safe  beneath  the  sheltering  soil, 

Late  enough  you  crept ; 
You  were  weary  of  the  toil 

Long  before  you  slept. 
Well  you  paid  for  every  blessing, 

Bought  writh  grief  each  day  of  cheer: 
Nature's  arms  around  you  pressing, 
Nature's  lips  your  brow  caressing, 

Sleep,  old  pioneer ! 

When  the  hill  of  toil  was  steepest, 

When  the  forest-frown  was  deepest, 
Poor,  but  young,  you  hastened  here ; 

Came  where  solid  hope  was  cheapest- 
Game — a  pioneer. 

Made  the  western  jungles  view 
Civilization's  charms ; 

Snatched  a  home  for  yours  and  you, 
From  the  lean  tree-arms. 

Toil  had  never  cause  to  doubt  you— 
Progress'  path  you  helped  to  clear; 

But  To-day  forgets  about  you, 

And  the  world  rides  on  without  you — 
Sleep,  old  pioneer ! 


42  Farm  Festivals. 

Careless  crowds  go  daily  past  you, 
Where  their  future  fate  has  cast  you, 

Leaving  not  a  sigh  or  tear; 
Arid  your  wonder-works  outlast  you — 

Brave  old  pioneer ! 
Little  care  the  selfish  throng 

Where  your  heart  is  hid, 
Though  they  thrive  upon  the  strong, 

Resolute  work  it  did. 
But  our  memory-eyes  have  found  you, 

And  we  hold  you  grandly  dear: 
With  no  work-day  woes  to  wound  you- 
With  the  peace  of  GOD  around  you— 

Sleep,  old  pioneer ! 


SLEEP,  OLD  PIONEER!" 


THE    FESTIVAL    OF    PRAISE; 

OR, 

THANKSGIVING-DAY. 

'Tis  in  the  thriftful  Autumn  days, 

When  earth  is  overdone, 
And  forest  trees  have  caught  the  blaze 

Thrown  at  them  by  the  sun, 
When  up  the  gray  smoke  puffs  and  curls 

From  cottage  chimney-lips, 
And  oft  the  driving  storm  unfurls 

The  black  sails  of  his  ships, 
Or  Indian  Summer,  dimly  fair, 

May  walk  the  valleys  through, 
And  paint  the  glass  walls  of  the  air 

In  tints  of  dreamy  blue, 
When  Summer  is  mislaid  and  lost 

Among  the  leaflets  dead, 
And  Winter,  in  white  wrords  of  frost, 

Has  telegraphed  ahead, 
When  far  afield  the  farmer  blows 

His  fingers,  numbed  with  cold, 
And  robs  from  stately  corn-hill  rows, 

Their  pocket-books  of  gold, 
When,  with  a  weird  and  horn-like  note, 

The  cloud-geese  southward  fly, 
In  branches  leafed  with  wings,  that  float 

Along  the  liquid  sky, 
When  to  their  meals  the  gobblers  strut, 

In  gastronomic  mood, 


46  Farm  Festivals. 

And  little  dream  that  they  are  but 

A  food-devouring  food, 
When  chains  adorn  the  chimney-vests, 

Of  apples  hung  to  dry, 
And  in  his  barrel-coffin  rests 

The  porker,  doomed  to  die, 
Or,  still  the  recent  cruel  sport 

Of  knife-engendered  pangs, 
His  blushing  corpse,  with  lessened  port. 

Upon  the  gallows  hangs ; 
'Tis  then  good  prosperous  folks  display 

A  reverential  cheer, 
And  thank  their  Maker  one  whole  day 

For  all  the  previous  year. 

The  President  proclaims  that  thus 

His  duty  does  direct ; 
The  Governor  has  written  us 

Unto  the  same  effect ; 
Now  let  the  housewife's  nets  be  cast, 

And  all  the  poultry  kind 
Begin  to  realize,  at  last, 

For  what  they  were  designed  ; 
Now  rob  your  fowl-yards  of  their  game. 

Till  tables  groan,  anon, 
That  they  who  eat  may  do  the  same 

A  little  farther  on  ; 
Now  let  your  clans  of  cousins  meet, 

And  talk  their  blessings  o'er, 
And  thank  The  Lord  for  what  they  eat, 

By  eating  all  the  more ; 
Now  let  your  industry's  reward. 

Achieve  a  fair  display, 
And  hearts  and  stomachs  thank  The  Lord, 

Alternately  all  day ! 

The  patriarch-farmer,  worn  arid  tanned, 
Has  all  his  heart  alive 


'TIS    IN    THE    THRIFTFUL     AUTUMN    DAYS. 


The  Festival  of  Praise.  49 

To  sight  his  married  children,  and 

Assist  them  to  arrive. 
The  open  gate  he  rushes  through, 

With  step  surprising  fast, 
And  hails  the  first  that  drives  in  view, 

"Ho!   ho!  you've  come  at  last!" 
He  helps  his  daughter-in-law  alight, 

With  elephantine  grace, 
And  kisses  hard  each  toddling  wight, 

All  o'er  its  tender  face ; 
And  soon  as  "Mother"  comes  and  throws 

The  woman-greeting-scream, 
Together  with  his  son  he  goes, 

To  help  him  stall  his  team. 
So  constantly  new-comers  gain 

Old  greeting  from  the  sire, 
And  soon  they  form  a  sparkling  chain, 

Around  a  blazing  lire. 
And  Reminiscence  deftly  trips 

Them  and  "old  times"  between, 
And  tempts  their  conversation-lips 

With  memories  sweet  and  keen. 
Old  happenings  are  handled  o'er, 

In  stories  somewhat  true ; 
The  family  all  is  raised  once  more, 

Here  in  an  hour  or  two. 
There  is  no  speech  too  dull  to  quote — 

The  last  tale  is  the  best ; 
Biography  and  anecdote 

Are  each  an  honored  guest. 
The  family-liar  may  be  here; 

And  is  not  greatly  grieved, 
To  know  his  tales,  unduly  queer, 

Are  kindly  disbelieved ; 
A-many  words  are  gayly  spoke, 

Illiterately  bright ; 
And  every  crippled,  veteran  joke, 

Is  stirred  up  to  the  sight ; 


Farm  Festivals. 

< 

And  tales  are  told  of  childhoods  tipped 

With  follies  wisely  hid, 
And  how  the  good  boy  oft  was  whipped 

For  what  the  bad  one  did ; 
Of  many  a  brain  and  muscle  bout, 

By  plastic  memory  fed, 
In  which  the  one  who  tells  comes  out 

Invariably  ahead 
(For  people's  lives,  you  know  full  well, 

Two  sets  of  things  recall : 
The  one  of  which  they  often  tell, 

The  other  not  at  all) ; 
The  children  romping  rush  and  lurk, 

And  demonstrate  their  lungs ; 
The  women  ply  their  knitting-work 

With  unimpeded  tongues. 
Live  fast,  you  selfish,  thankful  throng, 

For  life  to-day  is  fair, 
And  when  the  dinner  comes  along, 

Take  in  a  goodly  share! 
The  future  keeps  just  out  of  view, 

And  sorrow  waits  ahead ; 
There  may  be  days  when  some  of  you 

Will  beg  a  bit  of  bread. 
The  blessings  of  this  day  do  not 

Secure  a  future  one ; 
This  is  to  thank  The  Lord  for  what 

He  has  already  done. 
And  every  laugh,  however  gay, 

By  grief  shall  yet  be  quelled ; 
O'er  each  heart  that  is  here  to-day 

A  funeral  must  be  held. 
Laugh  on  again,  with  careless  voice, 

As  soon  as  grace  is  said ! 
God  loves  to  see  His  folks  rejoice, 

No  matter  what's  ahead. 
You're  sure  of  this  Thanksgiving-day, 

Whose  blessings  on  you  fall; 


The  Festival  of  Praise.  5  3 

A  million  thanks  you  should  display 

For  having  lived  at  all. 
Grief  should  be  checked,  with  crafty  plan, 

But  ne'er  by  dreading  nursed; 
Care  for  the  future  all  you  can, 

Then  let  it  do  its  worst ! 

The  remnants  of  the  poultry  tribes 

Lugubriously  confer; 
Each  selfish-sad  the  loss  describes 

That  worries  him  or  her. 
They  who  survive  man's  greedy  choice — 

The  thinnest  of  the  clans — 
With  half  raised  foot  and  trembling  voice. 

Discuss  their  future  plans. 
The  turkey-orphan  now  and  then 

Around  her  wildly  looks ; 
Her  sire  is  in  yon  tyrant's  den  ; 

She  smells  him  as  he  cooks. 
The  mother  of  the  crowing  wights 

Whose  necks  were  lately  wrung, 
Leaves  her  spasmodic  appetites, 

And  plies  her  mournful  tongue ; 
Or  scratches  absently  about, 

Her  luckless  prey  to  view, 
Forgetting,  as  she  picks  them  out, 

That  worms  have  mothers,  too. 
Her  helpmeet,  whose  defiant  crow 

Struck  morning's  earliest  chimes, 
Has  left  her  side  not  long  ago, 

And  gone  to  warmer  climes; 
Her  dearest  friend  of  heart  and  kith, 

Her  gossip  and  her  aid, 
The  one  that  she  changed  cackles  with 

Whenever  either  laid, 
Has  very  suddenly  moved  on— 

With  close-tied  yellow  legs — 
To  where,  in  days  forever  gone, 

She  shipped  so  many  eggs. 


54  Farm  Festivals. 

The  hateful  Now  each  moment  mocks 

The  over-happy  Then  ; 
Through  sorrow's  vale  she  sadly  stalks, 

A  crushed  and  broken  hen. 
Cheer  up,  old  girl,  and  do  not  mind 

Fate's  death-envenomed  gibes ! 
God's  bird-regards  are  not  confined 

Unto  the  sparrow  tribes. 
By  Him  your  shrill,  queer  mercy-prayer 

Was  never  once  unheard ; 
He  built  you  with  as  curious  care 

As  any  other  bird. 
Fling  off  the  grief  that  round  you  crept. 

Your  cherished  loves  to  lose ; 
Contact  with  friends  is  naught  except 

A  list  of  interviews ; 
And  each  and  all  must  have  an  end — 

Stars  rise,  when  others  set — 
If  you  live  right,  old  speckled  friend, 

You  have  a  future  yet. 
Brush  by  the  care  that  blocks  your  way 

Strike  a  progressive  mood ! 
Fly  round,  and  make  a  nest,  and  lay, 

And  hatch  another  brood ! 

The  pauper  will,  as  like  as  not, 

This  festive  day  abhor, 
And  try  to  find  what  he  has  got 

To  thank  his  Maker  for. 
With  grim  suspense  of  gratitude 

He  views  his  last  disease, 
His  ragged  bed  and  broken  food, 

And  says,  "  It  isn't  these  !" 
He  brushes,  with  his  mournful  eye, 

An  ancient  coat  or  hat, 
And,  standing  back,  with  rueful  sigh, 

Eeflects,  "  It  isn't  that !" 
He  thinks  of  various  friends  he  had, 

Who  do  not  stand  him  true; 


The  Festival  of  Praise.  5  5 

And,  with  a  frown  indignant  sad, 

Remarks,  "  It  isn't  you  !" 
And  still,  he  knows  his  meal  to-day 

May  show  unusual  cheer, 
For  Charity,  when  people  pray, 

Creeps  softly  up  to  hear ; 
And  when  their  eye  she  slyly  brings 

To  their  abundant  shelves, 
They  send  the  paupers  various  things 

They  do  not  want  themselves. 
But  food  bestowed  is  apt  to  be 

Unshapely  to  the  eye, 
And  something  of  a  parody 

On  food  that  people  buy. 
Though  may  be  given  with  good  grace, 

And  motive  quite  sincere, 
The  poor  of  the  provision  race 

Comes  often  also  here : 
The  fowl,  unclogged  with  fleshly  pelf; 

The  bread-loaf  underdone; 
The  hash,  a  dinner  of  itself— 

Ten  courses  merged  in  one; 
The  steak,  once  stoutly  clinging  nigh 

Some  over-aged  bull: 
The  meek  and  lowly  veteran  pie, 

Of  reminiscence  full. 
But  emptiness  must  ever  yet 

Deem  any  filling  rare; 
And  stomachs  love  to  work  which  get 

Much  leisure  time  to  spare. 
With  hearts  that  thanks  can  well  afford, 

They  gather,  hungry  clan, 
Around  the  mildly-festal  board, 

And  do  the  best  they  can. 
Here  two  old  men,  of  meek  intent, 

The  past  are  dwelling  on : 
How  they  might  have  done  different, 

If  they  had  different  done; 


56  Farm  Festivals. 


They  look  back,  and  discern  the  cause 

Of  each  misfortune  past, 
And  whose  rascality  it  was 

That  ruined  them  at  last ; 
Ah,  me!  they  might  be  wealthy  men, 

With  honors  on  their  brow, 
If  they  had  calculated  then 

As  well  as  they  do  now ! 
The  idiot  in  a  corner  lurks, 

And  eats  in  bland  disgrace ; 
Perhaps  because  his  good  mind  works 

In  an  unhandy  place. 
You  idiot  boy,  I  like  you  much ! 

Relationship  I  find ; 
Perhaps,  indeed,  we  all  are  such 

To  the  celestial  mind. 
Perchance  the  charter  angels  call 

Us  fit  for  laughter's  ban, 
Because  we've  fallen,  since  The  Fall, 

A  good  deal  lower  than 
Themselves,  whose  sails  have  had  a  chance 

At  Heaven's  progressive  breeze, 
While  we  'gainst  headwinds  must  advance, 

And  toss  on  passion-seas. 
You  idiot  boy,  be  vaguely  glad  ; 

Your  puzzled  griefs  discharge ! 
You  have  some  rich  relations,  lad ; 

Your  family  is  large. 
I  rather  think,  that  through  some  trade 

Not  understood  below, 
Arrangements  some  time  will  be  made 

To  give  your  mind  a  show. 
The  oldwife  feebly  gnaws  a  bone — 

Her  wits  are  half  awhirl; 
To-day  she  is  a  withered  crone : 

She  was  a  handsome  girl. 
Here  is  a  drudge  who's  never  shirked 

Her  duty,  it  appears; 


The  Festival  of  Praise.  5  7 

Arid  for  herself  has  only  worked 

In  these  her  feebler  years. 
Here  is — but  let  us  turn  away 

From  life's  pain-printed  leaf! 
I  have  known  comely  hair  turn  gray 

With  other  people's  grief. 
Good-bye,  dear  ones  !  for  you  are  dear 

To  souls  that  yearn  above ; 
If  graves  could  open,  you  would  hear 

Some  genuine  words  of  love. 
The  smiles  that  once  your  brows  caressed 

Are  still  upon  you  thrown  ; 
Your  lips  are  yet  by  love-lips  pressed  ; 

'Tis  but  the  types  are  gone. 
Good-bye,  dear  ones !  for  you  are  dear 

To  One  most  high  of  place  ; 
And  He,  with  research  long  and  clear, 

Has  studied  up  your  case! 
He  knows  your  mind  and  body  pains, 

And  when  to  soothe  them  out; 
He  knows  what  yet  for  you  remains ; 

He  knows  what  He's  about. 
Your  humble  path  is  not  aglearn 

At  this  praise-spangled  date; 
Your  thank-material  none  can  deem 

Bewilderingly  great ; 
But  some  day,  when  the  time  is  fit — 

On  some  joy-lighted  morn — 
You'll  thank  Him  for  the  whole  of  it, 

As  sure  as  you  are  born  ! 

The  God  above !  what  can  we  say 

Or  do,  with  eyes  so  dim, 
To  make  this  Thursday-Sabbath  day 

Thanksgiving-day  to  him? 
What  love,  though  grace  and  beauty  clad, 

Can  thrills  to  Him  impart, 
Who  all  the  love  has  always  had 

Of  every  brain-fed  heart? 


Farm  Festivals. 

What  can  we  sing  to  One  whose  verse 

Eternal  song  unbars? 
What  give  to  Him  whose  cloud-fringed  purse 

Is  crammed  with  gleaming  stars? 
A  doubly  pious  way  consists, 

When  we  our  thanks  would  bring, 
In  recollecting  He  exists 

In  every  living  thing; 
That  when  or  beast  or  man  we  touch 

With  pity-helping  care, 
'Tis  known  in  heaven  just  as  much 

As  if  we  did  it  there ; 
That  when  our  voice  in  kind  behalf 

Of  any  grief  is  heard, 
Heaven's  wondrous  gold-foiled  phonograph 

Is  taking  every  word ; 
That  when  a  heart  the  earth-heart  serves, 

Of  diamond  or  clod, 
It  thrills  the  universe's  nerves, 

And  glads  the  soul  of  God. 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  GOOD  CHEER; 

OR, 

CHRISTMAS  MONOLOGUES. 

[FAKMER.] 

BLOW — blow — bushels  o'  snow — 

As  if  yon  had  lost  your  senses ! 
Rake  with  your  might  long  winrows  white, 

Along  o'  my  walls  an'  fences ! 
Hover  and  crowd,  ye  black-faced  cloud  ! 

Your  look  's  with  comfort  mingled  ; 
The  more  o'  ye  falls  on  these  strong  walls, 

The  better  my  house  is  shingled. 
Swarm,  swarm,  pale  bees  o'  the  storm  ! 

You  bid  the  world  look  whiter ; 
Your  very  ire  but  pokes  my  fire, 

And  makes  the  blaze  burn  brighter! 

I  ha'  worked  away  more  'n  one  hot  day, 

With  the  harvest-forge  a-glowing, 
To  kindle  the  cheer  of  Summer  here, 

When  cold  wrinds  should  be  blowing. 
I  ha'  braced  my  form  'gainst  many  a  storm, 

When  the  gale  blew  helter-skelter — 
O'er  side-hills  steep,  through  snow-drifts  deep, 

I  ha'  climbed,  to  make  this  shelter. 
My  debts  are  raised,  The  Lord  be  praised  ! 

They  left  my  old  heart  lighter  ; 
That  niortffaore  I  fed  to  the  fire-mouths  red — 

O     C? 

And  it  made  the  flame  burn  brighter  1 


6o 


Farm  Festivals. 


There's  a  smile  that  speaks,  in  the  plump  red  cheeks 

Of  the  apples  in  these  dishes ; 
They  go  down  square,  with  a  business  air 

Of  consultin'  my  stomach's  wishes. 
I  arn  feelin'  the  charms  of  comfort's  arms, 
Which  never  opened  wider, 

With  the  sober  frown  of  my  doughnut* 

brown, 
And   the   laugh  of  my    sweet -kepi 

cider. 
(Of  course  I  know  that  this  all  must  go 

In  a  whirl  of  death  or  sorrow  ; 
But  there's  nothing  lost  in  the  work  i 

cost, 
If  I  knew  I  should  die  to-morrow ! 


My  mind  will  play,  this  Christmas-day 

Round  the  sad-faced  little  stranger 
That  smiled  on  them  at  Bethlehem  ; 

And  I  wish  it  had  been  my  manger 
I'd  ha'  told  'em  square  to  get  out  o'  there 

For  I  hadn't  o'er-much  o'  shed-room 
And  move  that  lad  and  what  else  the; 
had, 

Straight  into  my  parlor  bedroom. 
'Twas  a  story  too  true,  and  stranger,  toe 

Than  fairy  tale  or  fable  ; 
An   awkward  thing  for  that  preachei 
king 

To  be  tossed  about  in  a  stable ! 


'Twould  ha'  been  a  joy  to  ha'  given  that  boy 

A  quiet  heart  ovation, 
Before  He  was  known  as  heir  to  a  throne, 

Or  had  struck  His  reputation. 
But  I  think  I've  read  some  words  He  said, 

In  one  of  His  printed  sermons, 
"Of  the  least  of  these,"  in  which  one  sees 

The  poor,  the  weak,  the  infirm  'uns  ; 


The  Festival  of  Good  Cheer. 


61 


So  I  b'lieve  I  know  ten  turkeys  or 

so — 

Each  one  a  fat  old  sinner — 
Who'll  wend  their  way  to  the  poor- 
house  t'day, 
And  probably  stay  to  dinner. 

Growl — growl — ye  storm-dogs,  howl 

As  if  ye  was  tryin'  to  tree  me! 
For  all  o'  your  tricks,  my  grown-up 
chicks 

Are  com  in'  to-day  to  see  me  ! 
My  best  I've  done  for  every  one — 

My  heart  gets  their  caressing ; 
It  seems  to  me  like  a  Christmas  tree, 

Hung  round  with  every  blessing. 
(Of  course  I  know  that  this  all  must 

g°;— 

But  grief  wasn't  made  to  borrow, 
And  I'd  get  my  pay  for  the  fact 
to-day, 

If  I  knew  I  should  die  to-mor 
row  !) 


52  Farm  Festivals. 

[FARMER'S   WIFE.] 

Let's  see — there'll  be  ten — eleven — twelve — on  this  side. 

The  old  table's  growing  too  small ; 
Our  larder,  as  well  as  our  hearts,  must  provide, 

And  our  hearts  will  make  room  for  them  all. 

There'll  be  Jim  with  his  jokes  (and  I  hope  they'll  be  new, 

Not  those  he  has  told  twice  before) ; 
There'll  be  Sam  with  his  stories,  more  startling  than  true, 

Which  always  remind  him  of  more ; 

There'll  be  Kate,  with  her  fat  little  pig  of  a  lad, 

Whose  stomach  unceasingly  begs  ; 
And  her  other  one,  who,  though  not  cut  out  for  bad, 

Is  a  hurricane  mounted  on  legs ; 

There'll  be  John,  with  his  tiny  brown  tribe  of  brunettes, 

And  Lue,  with  her  one  little  blonde ; 
And  Tom,  with  two  armfuls  of  wife  and  their  pets, 

A  trifle  too  startlingly  fond  ! 

For  'tis  dangerous  business — this  loving  too  well — 

It  somehow  brings  Heaven  over-near ; 
When  our  hearts  their  sweet  stories  too  noisily  tell, 

The  angels  are  certain  to  hear; 

The  angels  are  certain  to  hear  what  we  say, 
In  their  search  for  the  brightest  and  best ; 

Arid  they're  likely  to  carry  our  prizes  away, 
To  make  Heaven  more  happy  and  blest. 

Though  our  table  be  short,  yet  our  hearts  extend  wide — 

This  food's  with  no  stinginess  chilled  ; 
Let's  see  :  there'll  be  ten — eleven — twelve — on  this  side — 

And — the  chair  that  will  never  be  filled. 

Oh  my  poor  darling  boy,  tying  silent  to-day, 

With  the  storm  spading  snow  on  your  breast ! 


The  Festival  of  Good  Cheer.  63 

The  angels,  they  found  you,  and  made  you  their  prey, 
In  their  search  for  the  brightest  and  best ! 

My  boy-love !     I  did  not  believe  you  would  go ! 

How  I  begged  and  implored  you  to  wake, 
As  you  lay  here  so  white,  on  that  dark  day  of  woe, 

That  they  brought  you  home,  drowned,  from  the  lake ! 

And  whoever  may  come,  and  whatever  betide, 

You  still  have  your  room  and  your  chair ; 
Is  it  true  that  I  feel  you  sometimes  at  my  side, 

And  your  lips  on  my  forehead  and  hair  ? 

The  house  will  be  running  clear  over  with  glee, 

We  all  shall  be  merry  to-day  ; 
But  Christmas  is  never  quite  Christmas  to  me3 

With  one  of  rny  loved  ones  away. 


THE    FESTIVAL    OF    ANECDOTE; 

OR, 

AN  EVENING  IN   THE  COUNTRY   STORE. 

I. 

AN  evening  in  the  quaint  old  country  store ! 
"While  Winter's  feet  were  kicking  at  the  door, 
And  Winter's  white-nailed  lingers  striving  hard 
To  raise  the  windows  he  himself  had  barred ; 
Save  when  he  chased  upon  their  weary  rounds, 
Through  tracks  of  air,  his  yelling  tempest-hounds. 
Bark  louder,  storm-dogs  !    to  our  dreamy  sight, 
Your  voices  make  the  fire-cheer  twice  as  bright, 
Promoting  high  beyond  a  moment's  doubt, 
The  value  of  the  dry-goods  shelved  about. 

There's  little  you'll  be  wanting,  cheap  or  dear, 
That  has  not  something  somewhat  like  it,  here  ; 
Whatever  honest  people  drink  or  eat, 
Or  pack  their  bodies  in,  from  head  to  feet, 
Want  what  you  may,  you'll  get  it — search  no  more — 
Or  imitation   of  it — in  this  store. 
The  body's  needs  not  only  here  you  find, 
But  food,  too,  for  the  sympathies  and  mincl  ; 
For  in  one  corner,  fed  by  many  lands, 
The  small  post-office  dignifiedly  stands, 
With  square,  red-numbered  boxes  in  its  arms, 
Well  stocked  with  white  and  brown-enveloped  charms. 
Here  the  lithe  girl,  irresolutely  gay, 
Asks  if  there's  "  any  thing  for  us  to-day  " ; 


ASKS  IF  THERE'S  'ANY  THING  FOR  us 


The  Festival  of  Anecdote.  67 

Here  the  farm  lad.  who  wider  fields  would  seek, 

Comes  for  the  county  paper  once  a  week. 

Through  this  delivery  port-hole  there  is  hurled 

Printed  bombardment  from  the  outside  world  ; 

The  great,  far  world,  whose  heart-throbs,  up  and  down, 

Strike  pulses,  e'en  within  this  quiet  town. 

The  quaint,  well  populated  country  store! 
A  hospitable,  mirth-productive  shore, 
Where  masculine  barks  take  refuge  from  distress, 
In  the  port  of  an  evening's  cheerfulness. 
The  rusty  stove,  with  wood-fed  heat  endowed, 
Shoots  hot  invisible  arrows  at  the  crowd, 
To  which  the  chewing  population  nigh 
Send  back  a  prompt  and  vigorous  reply, 
And  find  time  for  side-battles  of  retort, 
In  various  moralled  stories,  long  and  short: 

O 

From  one  that's  smart  and  good  enough  to  print, 

To  one  that  has  a  hundred  hell-seeds  in  't. 

Here  laws  are  put  on   trial  by  debate, 

Here  solved  conundrums,  both  of  Church  and  State; 

Here  is  contested,  with  more  voice  than  brain, 

Full  many  a  hot  political  campaign  ; 

The  half  surmised  shortcomings  of  the  church 

Are  opened  to  some  sinner's  anxious  search  ; 

And  criticisms  the  minister  gets  here, 

From  men  who  have  not  heard  him  once  a  year. 

Or  maybe  some  inside  the  sacred  fold 

No  longer  their  experiences  can  hold 

Within  the  flock,  who  've  harked  to  them  so  oft, 

Invariably  referring  them  aloft, 

That,  tired  of  this  monotony,  they  yearn 

A  little  godless  sympathy  to  earn. 

And  maybe  it  is  one  of  these,  who  now, 

With  elevated  feet  and  earnest  browr, 

And  face  where  sentiment  flits  to  and  fro, 

Tells  sorrows  he  has  felt  not  loner  a 


68  Farm  Festivals. 


AND    HE    STUDIED    QUITE    A    LITTLE    ERE    HE    GOT    THE    PROPEU    REFERENCE. 


[OUR    TRAVELED   PARSON.] 

For  twenty  years  and  over,  onr  good  parson  had  been  toiling, 
To    chip    the    bad    meat    from    our    hearts,  and    keep    the    good    from 

spoiling ; 

But  suddenly  he  wilted  down,  and  went  to  looking  sickly, 
And  the  doctor  said  that  something  must  be  put  up  for  him  quickly. 
So  we  kind  o'  clubbed  together,  each  according  to  his  notion, 
And  bought  a  circular  ticket,  in  the  lands  across  the  ocean  ; 
Wrapped  some  pocket-money  in  it  —  what  wre   thought  would    easy  do 

him — 

And  appointed  me  committee-man,  to  go  and  take  it  to  him. 
I  found  him  in  his  study,  looking  rather  worse  than  ever ; 
And  told  him  'twas  decided  that  his  flock  and  he  should  sever. 
Then  his  eyes  grew  big  with  wonder,  and  it  seemed  almost  to  blind  'em, 
And  some  tears  looked  out  o'  window,  with  some  others  close  behind  'em  ! 
But  I  handed  him  the  ticket,  with  a  little  bow  of  deference, 
And  he  studied  quite  a  little  ere  he  got  the  proper  reference  ; 
And  then  the  tears  that  waited — great  unmanageable  creatures — 
Let  themselves  quite  out  o'  window,  and  came  climbing  down  his  feat 
ures. 


The  Festival  of  Anecdote.  69 

I  wish  you  could  ha'  seen  him,  when  he  came  back,  fresh  and  glow- 


His  clothes  all  worn  and  seedy,  and  his  face  all  fat  and  knowing; 

I  wish  you  could  ha'  heard  him,  when  he  prayed  for  ns  who  sent  him, 

Paying  back  with  compound  int'rst  every  dollar  that  we'd  lent  him  ! 

'Twas  a  feast  to  true  believers  —  'twras  a  blight  on  contradiction— 

To  hear  one  just  from  Calvary  talk  about  the  crucifixion  ; 

'Twas  a  damper  on  those  fellows   who  pretended  they  could   doubt  it, 

To  have  a  man  who'd  been  there  stand  and  tell  'em  all  about  it  ! 

Why  every  foot  of  Scripture,  whose  location  used  to  stump  us, 

Was  now  regularly  laid  out  with  the  different  points  o'  compass; 

When  he  undertook  a  subject,  in  what  nat'ral  lines  he'd  draw  it  ! 

He  would  paint  it  out  so  honest  that  it  seemed  as  if  you  saw  it. 

And  the  way  he  went  for  Europe  !  oh,  the  way  he  scampered  through  it! 

Not  a  mountain  but  he  clim'  it  —  not  a  city  but  he  knew  it  ; 

There  wasn't  any  subject  to  explain,  in  all  creation, 

But  he  could  go  to  Europe  and  bring  back  an  illustration  ! 

So  we  crowded  out  to  hear  him,  quite  instructed  and  delighted  ; 

'Twas  a  picture-showT,  a  lecture,  and  a  sermon  —  all  united  ; 

And  my  wife  would  rub  her  glasses,  and  serenely  pet  her  Test'ment, 

And  whisper,  "  That  'ere  ticket  was  a  splendid  good  investment." 

Now,  after  six  months'  travel,  we  was  most  of  us  all  ready 
To  settle  down  a  little,  so  's  to  live  more  staid  and  steady  ; 
To  develop  home  resources,  with  no  foreign  cares  to  fret  us, 
Using  house-made  faith  more  frequent;  but  our  parson  wouldn't  let  us! 
To  view  the  same  old  scenery,  time  and  time  again  he'd  call  us  — 
Over  rivers,  plains,  and  mountains  he  would  any  minute  haul  us  ; 
He  slighted  our  soul-sorrows,  and  our  spirits'  aches  and  ailings, 
To  get  the  cargo  ready  for  his  regular  Sunday  sailings  ! 
Why,  he'd  take  us  off  a-  touring,  in  all  spiritual  weather, 
Till  we  at  last  got  home-sick  and  sea-sick  all  together  ! 
And  "  I  wish  to  all  that's  peaceful,"  said  one  free-expressioned  brother, 
"That  The  Lord  had  made  one  cont'nent,  an'  then  never  made  another!" 

Sometimes,  indeed,  he'd  take  us  into  old,  familiar  places, 
And  pull  along  quite  nat'ral,  in  the  good  old  Gospel  traces  : 
But  soon  my  wife  would  shudder,  just  as  if  a  chill  had  got  her, 
Whispering,  "  Oh,  my  goodness  gracious  !  he's  a-takin'  to  the  water  !" 


70  Farm  Festivals* 

And  it  wasn't  the  same  old  comfort,  when  he  called  around  to  see  us  ; 
On  some  branch  of  foreign  travel  he  was  sure  at  last  to  tree  us ; 
All  unconscious  of  his  error,  he  would  sweetly  patronize  us, 
And  with  oft-repeated  stories  still  endeavor  to  surprise  us. 


"  'TAVAS  A  PICTURE-SHOW,  A  LECTURE,  AND  A  SERMON,  ALL  UNITED." 

And  the  sinners  got  to  laughing ;  and  that  fin'lly  galled  and  stung  us, 
To  ask  him,  Wouldn't  he  kindly  once  more  settle  down  among  us? 
Didn't  he   think  that   more   home  produce   would  improve   our   soul's 

digestions? 

They  appointed  me  committee-man  to  go  and  ask  the  questions. 
I  found  him  in  his  garden,  trim  an'  buoyant  as  a  feather ; 
lie  shook  my  hand,  exclaiming,  "This  is  quite  Italian  weather! 
How  it  'minds  me  of  the  evenings  when,  your  distant  hearts  caressing, 
Upon  my  dear,  good  brothers,  I  invoked  God's  choicest  blessing !" 


The  Festival  of  Anecdote. 


"  I    FOUND    HIM    IN*    HIS    GARDEN,   TRIM    AN5    BUOYANT    AS    A    FEATHER." 


I  went  and  told  the  brothers,  "  No ;  I  can  not  bear  to  grieve  him ; 
He's  so  happy  in  his  exile,  it's  the  proper  place  to  leave  him. 
I  took  that  journey  to  him,  and  right  bitterly  I  rue  it ; 
But  I  can  not  take  it  from  him  ;  if  you  want  to,  go  and  do  it." 

Now  a  new  restraint  entirely  seemed  next  Sunday  to  enfold  him, 
And  he  looked  so  hurt  and  humbled,  that  I  knew  that  they  had  told 

him. 

Subdued-like  was  his  manner,  and  some  tones  were  hardly  vocal ; 
But  every  word  and  sentence  was  pre-eminently  local ! 


72  Farm  Festivals. 

Still,    the    sermon     sounded    awkward,    and     we     awkward    felt    who 

heard  it ; 

'Twas  a  grief  to  see  him  steer  it — 'twas  a  pain  to  hear  him  word  it. 
"  When  I  was  abroad  " — was  maybe  half  a  dozen  times  repeated, 
But  that  sentence  seemed  to  choke  him,  and  was  always  uncompleted. 

As  weeks  went  on,  his  old  smile  would  occasionally  brighten, 
But  the  voice  was  growing  feeble,  and  the  face  began  to  whiten  ; 
He  would  look  off  to  the  eastward,  with  a  wistful,  weary  sighing, 
Arid  'twas  whispered  that  our  pastor  in  a  foreign  land  was  dying. 

The  coffin  lay  'mid  garlands,  smiling  sad  as  if  they  knew  us ; 
The  patient  face  within  it  preached  a  final  sermon  to  us  ; 
Our  parson  had  gone  touring — on  a  trip  he'd  long  been  earning — 
In  that  wonder-land,  whence  tickets  are  not  issued  for  returning ! 
O  tender,  good  heart-shepherd  !  your  sweet  smiling  lips,  half-parted, 
Told  of  scenery  that  burst  on  you,  just  the  minute  that  you  started ! 
Could   you   preach    once   more   among   us,  you    might   wander,  without 

fearing ; 
You  could  give  us  tales  of  glory  that  we'd  never  tire  of  hearing! 


II. 

The  grave  sends  fascination  with  its  fear: 
We  shrink  and  dread  to  see  it  yawning  near. 
But  when  on  others  falls  the  endless  spell, 
We  like  to  talk  about  it  mighty  well ; 
And  handle  o'er,  with  fear-abated  breath, 
The  gruesome,  grim  particulars  of  death. 
Never  can  horror  so  a  tale  unfold, 
But  curious  mortals  love  to  hear  it  told, 
As  if  they  were  not  of  the  race  they  view, 
And  subject  to  the  same  conditions,  too. 
When  the  last  speaker  had  a  period  found, 
And  placed  his  parson  safely  under-ground, 
Mortality  of  every  phase  and  age 
Became  at  once  the  conversational  rage ; 
And  he  was  sachem  of  our  gossip-tribe, 
Who  had  the  dolefulest  death-pangs  to  describe. 


The  Festival  of  Anecdote.  73 

Most  well  I  recollect,  of  course  (though  least), 

My  own  addition  to  the  horror-feast. 

1  had  seen  two  men  hanged,  for  some  red  crime 

Committed  in  drink's  murder-harvest  time  ; 

By  sheriff-usher  through  the  jail-yard  shown, 

They  walked  unto  this  funeral  of  their  own  ; 

Their  rites  were  said  by  one  in  priesthood's  guise ; 

Two  empty  coffins  lay  before  their  eyes. 

One  scarcely  yet  had  left  youth's  pleasure-vale ; 

(His  mother  waited  for  him  near  the  jail.) 

The  other  had  his  tutor  been  in  crime, 

And  sold  the  devil  half  a  manhood's  time. 

They  did  not  flinch,  when  first  frowned  on  their  sight 

Their  gallows  death-bed,  standing  bolt-upright : 

But  when  the  youngster  turned  and  took  his  place, 

A  cold  wind  brushed  the  noose  against  his  face; 

Then  first  that  feigned  indifference  seemed  to  fail ; 

Death,  when  it  came,  made  not  the  boy  more  pale. 

(I  saw  him  in  the  coffin,  after  this; 

It  was  a  face  that  woman-eyes  would  kiss.) 

Close  to  his  side,  notice  the  older  pass: 

Teacher  and  pupil,  standing  in  one  class. 

This  rogue  had  learned  a  knack  to  calmly  die, 

And  glanced  the  younger  wretch  a  cold  good-bye ; 

But  he,  unmagnetized  from  past  control, 

With  silent-moving  lips  prayed  for  his  soul. 

(The  black  cap  hid  the  last  part  of  his  prayer, 

And  shut  it  in,  but  could  not  keep  it  there.) 

He  had  prayed  for  his  body,  had  he  known  ; 

For  while  the  older  died  without  a  groan, 

When  with  a  "  thud  !"  the  two  went  bounding  high, 

He  struggled,  gasped,  and  wailed,  but  could  not  die, 

Till  the  slow-gripping  rope  had  choked  him  quite, 

And  strong  men  fainted  at  the  piteous  sight. 

(I  thought  I  told  this  pretty  middling  well; 

But  was  eclipsed  by  an  old  sea-dog  swell, 

Anchored  by  age  in  our  cairn  rustic  bay, 

Who'd  seen  twelve  Turks  beheaded  in  one  day.) 


74  Farm  Festivals. 

Then  followed  accidents,  by  field  and  flood, 

Such  as  had  fettered  breath  or  loosened  blood ; 

Fires,  earthquakes,  shipwrecks,  and  such  cheerful  themes, 

Furnished  material  for  our  future  dreams. 

And  when  at  last  there  came  a  little  pause 

(The  silent  horror-method  of  applause), 

A  lad,  with  face  appropriately  long, 

Said,  u  Jacob,  won't  you  sing  that  little  song 

That  you  sat  up  all  t'other  night  to  make, 

About  the  children  drownded  in  the  lake?" 

Jacob,  whose  efforts  none  had  need  to  urge, 

Promptly  materialized  the  following  dirge : 

[A   DIRGE   OF   THE   LAKE.] 

On  the  lake — on  the  lake — 

The  sun  the  day  is  tingeing; 
The  sky's  rich  hue  shows  brighter  blue 

Above  its  forest  fringing. 
The  breezes  high  blow  far  and  nigh 

White  cloudlets,  like  a  feather ; 
The  breezes  low  sweep  to  and  fro, 

And  wavelets  race  together. 

Up  the  lake — up  the  lake — 

The  busy  oars  are  dipping; 
The  blades  of  wood  that  cleave  the  flood, 

With  streamlets  fresh  are  dripping. 
A  graceful  throng  of  golden  song 

Comes  floating  smoothly  after ; 
Like  silver  chains,  ring  loud  the  strains 

Of  childhood's  merry  laughter. 

By  the  lake — by  the  lake — 

The  lilies'  heads  are  lifting, 
And  into  night  the  warmth  and  light 

Of  happy  homes  are  drifting. 
The  bright  sun-rays  upon  them  gaze, 

In  pity  unavailing; 


The  Festival  of  Anecdote.  75 

With  laughing  eyes,  between  two  skies 
They  for  the  grave  are  sailing. 

In  the  lake — in  the  lake — 

The  barge  is  sinking  steady ; 
A  startled  hush,  a  frantic  rush — 

The  feast  of  Death  is  ready ! 
A  pleading  cry,  a  faint  reply, 

A  frenzied,  brave  endeavor — 
And  o'er  them  deep  the  wavelets  creep. 

And  smile  as  sweet  as  ever. 

'Neath  the  lake — 'neath  the  lake— 

The  wearied  forms  are  lying; 
They  sleep  away  their  gala-day— 

Too  fair  a  day  for  dying! 
With  hands  that  grasped,  and  nothing  clasped, 

With  terror-frozen  faces, 
In  slimy  caves  and  gloomy  graves, 

They  nestle  to  their  places. 

From  the  lake — from  the  lake — 

They  one  by  one  are  creeping; 
Their  very  rest  is  grief-possessed, 

And  piteous  looks  their  sleeping. 
Upon  no  face  is  any  trace 

Of  sickness'  friendly  warning, 
But  sad  they  lie  'neath  even-sky, 

Who  were  so  gay  at  morning! 

O'er  the  lake — o'er  the  lake— 

A  spectre  bark  is  sailing; 
There  is  no  cry  of  danger  nigh, 

There  is  no  sound  of  wailing. 
They  who  have  died  gaze  from  its  side — 

Their  spirit-faces  glowing; 
For  through  the  skies  the  life-boat  plies, 

And  angel  hands  are  rowing. 


76  Fann  Festivals. 


III. 

There  was  among  our  various-tempered  crowd, 

A  graduate ;  who,  having  last  year  plowed 

The  utmost  furrow  of  scholastic  lore, 

Now  boarded  with  his  father,  as  before. 

His  course  was  hard,  but  he  had  mastered  all : 

Aquatics,  billiards,  flirting,  and  base-ball ; 

And  now,  once  more  to  rural  science  turned, 

Was  leisurely  unlearning  wThat  he'd  learned. 

The  death-theme  made  him  sad  and  serious-eyed, 

About  a  college  comrade  who  had  died ; 

And  with  a  sudden,  strong  sigh-lengthened  breath, 

He  gave  this  boyish  paragraph  of  death : 


[THE   DEAD   STUDENT.] 

'Twas  mighty  slow  to  make  it  seem  as  if  poor  Brown  was  dead  ; 
'Twas  only  just  the  day  he  died,  he  had  to  take  his  bed  ; 
The  day  before,  he  played  first-base,  and  ran  McFarland  down  ; 
And  then  to  slip  away  so  sly — 'twas  not  at  all  like  Brown. 

'Twas  hard  for  my  own  life  to  leave  that  fellow's  life  behind  ; 
'Tis  work,  sometimes,  to  get  a  man  well  laid  out  in  your  mind  ! 
It  wouldn't  have  shook  rue  very  much,  long  after  all  was  o'er, 
To  hear  a  whoop,  and  see  the  man  go  rushing  past  my  door ! 

Poor  Brown  ! — so  white  and  newly  still  within  his  room  he  lay  ! 
I  called  upon  him,  as  it  were,  at  noon  the  second  day. 
A-rushing  into  Brownie's  room  seemed  awkward-like,  and  queer ; 
We  hadn't  spoken  back  and  forth  for  something  like  a  year. 

We  never  pulled  together  square  a  single  night  or  day  : 
Whate'er  direction  I  might  start,  Brown  went  the  other  way ; 
(Excepting  in  our  love  affairs  ;  we  picked  a  dozen  bones 
About  a  girl  Smith  tried  to  get,  who  fin'lly  married  Jones.) 

He  worked  against  me  in  our  class,  before  my  very  eyes; 

He  opened  up  and  scooped  me  square  out  of  the  Junior  prize  ; 


The  Festival,  of  Anecdote.  77 

I  never  wanted  any  place,  clean  from  the  last  to  first, 

But  Brown  Avas  sure  to  have  a  friend  who  wanted  it  the  worst ; 

In  the  last  campus  rush,  we  came  to  strictly  business  blows, 

And  with  the  eye  he  left  undimmed,  I  viewed  his  damaged  nose  ; 

In  short,  I  came  at  last  to  feel — I  own  it  with  dismay — 

That  life  would  be  worth  living  for,  if  Brown  were  out  the  way. 


"I     CALLED     UPON     HIM,  AS    IT    WERE,  AT     NOON    THE     SECOND    DAY." 

lie  lay  within  his  dingy  room,  as  white  as  drifted  snow- 
Things  all  around  were  wondrous  neat — the  women  fixed  them  so: 
'Twas  plain  he  had  no  hand  in  that,  and  naught  about  it  knew  ; 
To  've  seen  the  order  lying  round,  it  would  have  made  him  blue! 

A  bright  bouquet  of  girlish  flowers  smiled  on  the  scene  of  death, 
And  through  the  open  window  came  a  sweet  geranium-breath  ; 


78  Farm  Festivals. 

Close-caged,  a  small  canary  bird,  with  glossy,  yellow  throat, 
Tripped  drearily  from  perch  to  perch,  and  never  sung  a  note ; 

With  hair  unusually  combed,  sat  poor  McFarland  near, 
Alternately  perusing  Greek,  and  wrestling  with  a  tear ; 
A  homely  little  girl  of  six,  for  some  old  kindness'  sake, 
Sat  sobbing  in  a  corner  near,  as  if  her  heart  would  break ; 

The  books  looked  pale  and  wretched-like,  almost  as  if  they  knew, 
And  seemed  to  be  a-whispering  their  titles  to  the  view ; 
His  rod  and  gun  were  in  their  place ;  and  high  where  all  could  see, 
Gleamed  jauntily  the  boating-cup  he  won  last  year  from  me ; 

I  lifted  up  the  solemn  sheet ;  the  honest,  manly  face 

Had  signs  of  study  and  of  toil  that  death  could  not  erase ; 

As  western  skies  at  twilight  mark  where  late  the  sun  has  been, 

Brown's  face  showed  yet  the  mind  and  soul  that  late  had  burned  within. 

He  looked  so  grandly  helpless  there  upon  that  lonely  bed — 

Ah  me  !  these  manly  foes  are  foes  no  more  when  they  are  dead  ! 

"  Old  boy,"  said  I,  "  'twas  half  my  fault ;  this  heart  makes  late  amends." 

I  grasped  the  white  cold  hand  in  mine — and  Brown  and  I  were  friends. 


IV. 

"  That  was  a  sudden  death,  'twill  be  allowed," 

Said  a  half-Yankeed  Scotchman  in  the  crowd : 

"  We  never  know  what  paths  may  help  or  kill ; 

Death  has  a-many  ways  to  work  his  will. 

It  is  his  daily  study  and  his  care, 

To  utilize  earth,  water,  fire,  arid  air, 

Seduce  them  from  their  master  man's  employ, 

And  make  the  traitors  murder  and  destroy. 

Men  call  this  "  accident."     Of  one  I  know, 

That  came  about  not  very  long  ago, 

Where  I  once  lived,  three  thousand  miles  away; 

I  read  it  in  my  paper,  yesterday." 

Then,  with  a  strong  voice  that  came  not  amiss, 

He  told  the  story,  something  like  to  this  : 


The  Festival  of  Anecdote.  79 

[THE  DEATH-BRIDGE   OF  THE  TAY.] 

The  night  and  the  storm  fell  together  upon  the  old  town  of  Dundee, 

And,  trembling,  the  mighty  firth -river  held  out  its  cold  hand  toward 
the  sea. 

Like  the  dull -booming  bolts  of  a  cannon,  the  wind  swept  the  streets 
and  the  shores ; 

It  wrenched  at  the  roofs  and  the  chimneys — it  crashed  'gainst  the  win 
dows  and  doors ; 

Like  a  mob  that  is  drunken  and  frenzied,  it  surged  through  the  streets 
up  and  clown, 

And  screamed  the  sharp,  shrill  cry  of  "Murder!"  o'er  river  and  hill-top 
and  town. 

It  leaned  its  great  breast  'gainst  the  belfries — it  perched  upon  minaret 
and  dome — 

Then  sprang  on  the  shivering  firth -river,  and  tortured  its  waves  into 
foam. 

'Twas  a  night  when  the  landsman  seeks  shelter,  and  cares  not  to  ven 
ture  abroad ; 

When  the  sailor  clings  close  to  the  rigging,  and  prays  for  the  mercy 
of  God. 

Look!    the  moon  has  come  out,  clad  in  splendor,  the  turbulent  scene  to 

behold ; 

She  smiles  at  the  night's  devastation — she  dresses  the  storm-king  in  gold. 
She  kindles  the  air  with  her  cold  flame,  as  if  to  her  hand  it  were  given 
To  light  the  frail  earth  to  its  ruin,  with  the  tenderest  radiance  of 

heaven. 

Away  to  the  north,  ragged   mountains   climb   high  through  the   shud 
dering  air ; 
They  bend  their  dark  brows  o'er  the  valley,  to  read  what  new  ruin  is 

there. 

Along  the  shore-line  creeps  the  city,  in  crouching  and  sinuous  shape, 
With  firesides   so   soon   to  be  darkened,  and  doors  to  be  shaded  with 

crape ! 
To  the  south,  like  a  spider-web  waving,  there  curves,  for  a  two -mile 

away, 
This  world's  latest  man-devised  wonder  —  the  far-famous  bridge  of  the 

Tay. 


8o  Farm  Festivals. 

It  stretches  and  gleams  into  distance;   it  creeps  the  broad  stream  o'er 

and  o'er, 
Till   it    rests   its   strong,  delicate   lingers   in   the  palm    of  the   opposite 

shore. 
But  look !   through  the  mists  of  the  southward,  there  flash  to  the  eye, 

clear  and  plain, 
Like  a  meteor  that's  bound  to  destruction — the  lights  of  a  swift-corning 

train ! 

(3  cruel  and  bloodthirsty  tempest!  we  sons  of  humanity  know, 

Wherever  and  whene'er  we  find  you,  that  you  are  our  faithfulest  foe ! 

You  plow  with  the  death -pointed  cyclone  wherever  life's  dwellings 
may  be ; 

You  spur  your  fire-steeds  through  our  cities — you  scuttle  our  ships  on 
the  sea. 

The  storm -shaken  sailor  has  cursed  you;  white  hands  have  implored 
you  in  vain  ; 

And  still  you  have  filled  Death's  dominions,  and  laughed  at  humanity's 
pain. 

But  ne'er  in  the  cave  where  your  dark  deeds  are  plotted  and  hid  from 
the  light, 

Was  one  half  so  cruel  and  treacherous  as  this  you  have  kept  for  to 
night  ! 

You  lurked  'round  this  bridge  in  its  building;  you  counted  each  span 
and  each  pier; 

You  marked  the  men's  daily  endeavors  —  you  looked  at  them  all  with 
a  sneer ; 

You  laughed  at  the  brain -girded  structure;  you  deemed  it  an  easy- 
fought  foe, 

And  bided  the  time  when  its  builders  your  easy -plied  prowess  should 
know. 

()  tempest!  feed  full  with  destruction!  fling  down  these  iron  beams 
from  on  high ! 

But  temper  your  triumph  with  rnercy,  and  wait  till  the  train  has 
gone  by! 

()  angels!    sweet  guardian  angels! — who  once  in  the  body  drew  breath, 
Till,  wearied,  you  found  the  great  river,  and  crossed  on  the  black  bridge 
of  death, 


The  Festival  of  Anecdote.  Si 

You  who,  from  the  shores  of  the  sun -land,  fly  back  on  the  wings  of 
the  soul, 

And  round  your  frail  earth-loves  yet  hover,  and  strive  their  weak  steps 
to  control, 

Look  out  through  the  mists  to  the  southward ! — the  hearts  on  yon  swift- 
coming  train, 

So  light  and  so  happy  this  moment,  are  rushing  to  terror  and  pain ! 

Oli  whisper  a  word  to  the  driver,  that  till  morning  the  bridge  be  not 
braved ; 

At  the  cost  of  a  night  lost  in  waiting,  the  years  of  these  lives  may  be 
saved ! 

On  yon  cheer -freighted  train  there  are  hundreds,  who  soon  beyond 
help  will  be  hurled ; 

Oh  whisper  to  them  the  dread  secret,  before  it  is  known  to  the 
world ! 

On  this  home-lighted  shore  are  full  many  who  wait  for  their  friends, 
blithe  and  gay; 

They  will  wait  through  full  many  a  night-time — through  many  a  sor 
row-strewn  day. 

The  trim  evening  lamps  from  the  windows  their  comfort-charged  beau 
ty  will  shed  ; 

The  fire  will  burn  bright  on  the  hearth-stone — its  rays  will  be  cheer 
ful  and  red ; 

The  sun  will  come  out  of  the  cold  sea  —  the  morning  will  rise  clear 
and  bright, 

O          7 

But  death  will  eclipse  all  its  radiance,  and  darken  your  world  into 
night ! 

'Mid    the    lights    that    so    gayly    are    gleaming    yon    city    of    Dundee 

within, 

Is  one  that  is  waiting  a  wanderer,  who  long  o'er  the  ocean  has  been. 
His  age-burdened  parents  are  watching  from  the  window  that  looks  on 

the  firth, 
For  the  train  that  will   come  with  their   darling  —  their   truest-loved 

treasure  on  earth. 
" He'll  be  comin'  the   nicht,"  says  the  father,  "for  sure   the  hand-writ- 

in's  his  ain ; 
The  letter  says,  '  Ha'  the  lamp  lichted — I'll  come  on  the  seven  o'clock 

train.  6 


82  Farm  Festivals. 

For  years  in  the  mines  I've  been  toiling,  in  tins  wonderfu'  West,  o'er 

the  sea ; 
My  work  has  brought  back  kingly  wages  —  there's  plenty  for  you  an' 

for  me. 

Your  last  days  shall  e'en  be  your  best  days ;   the  high-stepping  young 
ster  you  knew, 
Who  cost  so  much  care  in  his  raising,  now  '11  care  for  himself  and  for 

you. 

Gang  not  to  the  station  to  meet  me ;  ye  never  need  run  for  me  more ; 
But  when  ye  shall  hear  the  gate  clickit,  ye  maim  rise  up  an'  open  the 

door. 
We  will  hae  the  first  glow  of  our  greeting  when  nae  one  o'  strangers 

be  nigh, 
We  will  smile  out  the  joy  o'  our  meeting  on  the  spot  where  we  wept 

our  good-bye. 
Ye   maun    put   me   a   plate   on   the  table,  an'  set  in  the  auld  place  a 

chair ; 

An'  if  but  the  good  Lord  be  willing,  doubt  never  a  bit  I'll  be  there. 
So  sit  ye  an'  wait  for  my  coming  (ye  will  na'  watch  for  me  in  vain), 
An'  see  me  glide  over  the  river,  along  o'  the  roar  o'  the  train. 
Ye  may  sit  at  the  southernmost  window,  for  I  will  come  hame  from 

that  way ; 
I  will  fly  where  I  swam,  when  a  youngster,  across  the  broad  Firth  o' 

the  Tay.'  " 

So  they  sit  at  the  southernmost  window,  the  parents,  with  hand  clasped 

in  hand, 
And  gaze  o'er  the  tempest -vexed  waters,  across  to  the  storm -shaken 

land. 

They  see  the  bold  acrobat-monster  creep  out  on  the  treacherous  line; 
Its  cinder-breath  glitters  like  star-dust — its  lamp-eyes  they  glimmer  and 

shine. 
It  braces  itself  'gainst  the  tempest — it  fights  for   each  inch  with   the 

foe — 

With  torrents  of  air  all  around  it — with  torrents  of  water  below. 
But  look  !   look  !   the   monster  is  stumbling,  while  trembles   the  fragile 

bridge-wall— 
They  struggle  like  athletes  entwining  —  then  both  like  a  thunder-bolt 

fall! 


"  BUT    LOOK  !     LOOK !     THE    MONSTER    IS    STUMBLING !" 


The  Festival  of  Anecdote.  85 

Down,  down  through  the  dark  the  train  plunges,  with  speed  unaccus 
tomed  and  dire ; 

It  glows  with  its  last  dying  beauty  —  it  gleams  like  a  hail -storm  of 
tire! 

No  wonder  the  mother  faints  death-like,  and  clings  like  a  clod  to  the 
floor ; 

No  wonder  the  man  flies  in  frenzy,  and  dashes  his  way  through  the 
door ! 

lie  fights  his  way  out  through  the  tempest ;  he  is  beaten  and  baffled 
and  tossed ; 

He  cries,  "The  train }s  gang  off  the  Tay  brig  !  lend  help  here  to  look  for 
the  lost  /" 

Oh,  little  to  him  do  they  listen,  the  crowds  to  the  river  that  flee; 

The  news,  like  the  shock  of  an  earthquake,  has  thrilled  through  the 
town  of  Dundee. 

Like  travelers  belated,  they're  rushing  to  where  the  bare  station-walls 
frown  ; 

Suspense  twists  the  blade  of  their  anguish — like  maniacs  they  run  up 
and  down. 

Out,  out,  creep  two  brave,  sturdy  fellows,  o'er  danger-strewn  buttress 
and  piers ; 

They  can  climb  'gainst  that  blast,  for  they  carry  the  blood  of  old 
Scotch  mountaineers. 

But  they  leave  it  along  as  they  clamber;  they  mark  all  their  hand- 
path  with  red ; 

Till  they  come  where  the  torrent  leaps  bridgeless  —  a  grave  dancing 
over  its  dead. 

A  moment  they  gaze  down  in  horror;  then  creep  from  the  death- 
laden  tide, 

With  the  news,  "There's  nae  help  for  our  loved  ones,  save  God's 
mercy  for  them  who  have  died  !" 

How  sweetly  the  sunlight  can  sparkle  o'er  graves  where  our  best  hopes 

have  lain ! 
How  brightly  its   gold   beams   can   glisten   on   faces  that  whiten  with 

pain  ! 

Oh,  never  more  gay  were  the  wavelets,  and  careless  in  innocent  glee, 
And    never    more    sweet    did    the    sunrise    shine    over    the    town    of 

Dundee. 


86 


Farm  Festivals. 


"OUT,  OUT,   CREEP     TWO    BRAVE,   STURDY    FELLOWS." 

But    though    the  town  welcomed  the   morning,  and  the   firth  threw  its 

gold  lances  back, 
On  the  hearts  of  the  grief -stricken  people   death's  cloud  rested  heavy 

and  black. 
And  the   couple   who   waited   last   evening   their   rnan-statnred   son   to 

accost, 
Now    laid   their   heads   down   on   the   table,  and   mourned   for   the   boy 

that  wras  lost. 
"'Twas  sae  sad,"  moaned  the  crushed,  aged  mother,  each  word  dripping 

o'er  with  a  tear, 
"  Sae  far  he  should  come  for  to  find  us,  and  then  he  should  perish  sae 

near! 

O  Robin,  my  bairn !  ye  did  wander  far  from  us  for  rnony  a  day, 
And  when  ye  ha'  come  back  sae  near  us,  why  could  na'  ye  come  a'  the 

way  ?'" 


The  Festival  of  Anecdote.  87 

"  I  hae  come  a'  the  way,"  said  a  strong  voice,  and  a  bearded  and 

sun-beaten  face 

Smiled   on   them  the  first  joyous  pressure  of   one   long   and  filial  em 
brace  : 
"  I  cam'  on  last  niclit  far  as  Newport ;  but  Maggie,  my  bride  that's  to 

be, 
She  ran  through  the   storm  to  the  station,  to  get  the   first  greeting  o' 

me. 
I  leaped  from  the  carriage  to  kiss  her ;   she  held   me  sae  fast  and  sae 

ticht, 

The  train  it  ran  off  and  did  leave  me ;  I  could  na'  get  over  the  niclit. 
I  tried  for  to  walk  the  brig  over — my  head  it  was  a'  in  a  whirl— 
I  could  na' — ye  know  the  sad  reason — I  had  to  go  back  to  my  girl ! 
I  hope   ye'll    tak'  kindly   to  Maggie ;    she's   promised  to  soon    be   my 

wife ; 
She's  a  darling  wee   bit   of  a  lassie,  and  her  fondness  it  saved  me  my 

life." 

The  night  and  the  storm  fell  together  upon  the  sad  town  of  Dundee, 
The  half-smothered   song  of  the  tempest  swept  out  like   a  sob   to   the 

sea; 
The  voice  of  the  treacherous  storm-king,  as  mourning  for  them  he  had 

slain  ; 
O   cruel  and   blood-thirsty  tempest!  your  false    tears   are    shed   all   in 

vain  ! 

Beneath  the  dread  roof  of  this  ruin  your  sad  victims  nestle  and  creep; 
They  hear  not  the  voices  that  call  them  ;  if  they  come,  they  will  come 

in  their  sleep. 

No  word   can   they  tell    of  their  terror,  no   step  of  the  dark  route  re 
trace, 

Unless  their  sad  story  be  written  upon  the  white  page  of  the  face. 
Perchance  that  may  speak  of  their  anguish  when  first  came  the  crash 

of  despair; 
The  long-drawn    suspense   of    the    instant   they    plunged    through    the 

shuddering  air; 

The  life-panoramas  that  flitted  swift  past  them,  with  duties  undone; 
The  brave  fight  for  life  in  a  battle  that  strong  death  already  had  won  ; 
The  half  stifled  shouting  of  anguish  the  aid  of  high  Heaven  to  implore ; 
The  last  patient  pang  of  submission,  when  effort  was  ended  and  o'er. 


88 


Farm  Festivals. 


-!____!    \  ;      h 


"  SHE  HELD  ME  SAE  FAST  AND  SAE  TIGHT." 

But,  tempest,  a    bright    star    in    heaven    a   message    of    comfort    sends 

back, 
And   draws   our    dim   glances   to    skyward,   away   from   thy   laurels   of 

black : 
Thank  God  that  whatever  the  darkness  that  covers  his  creature's  dim 

sight, 
He  always  vouchsafes  some  deliverance,  throws  some  one  a  sweet  ray  of 

light; 
Thank  God  that  the  strength  of  his  goodness  from  dark  depths  ascended 

on  high, 
And  carried  the  souls  of  the  suffering  away  to  the  realms  of  the  sky; 


The  Festival  of  Anecdote.  89 

Thank  God  that  his  well-tempered  mercy  came  down  with  the  clouds 

from  above, 
And  saved  one  from  out  the  destruction,  and  him  by  the  angel  of  lovp. 


V. 

What  mind-smith  who  can  trace  the  subtle  links 

That  join  a  man's  ideas,  when  he  thinks  ? 

Given  the  thought  by  which  he's  pleased  or  vexed, 

Who  can  predict  what  one  will  strike  him  next? 

Given  a  memory,  who  can  tell  us  all 

The  other  memories  that  its  voice  may  call? 

Given  a  fancy,  who  betimes  can  read 

What  other  unlike  fancies  it  may  breed  ? 

Given  a  fact,  who  surely  can  foreknow 

What  distant  relatives  may  come  and  go  ? 

Beneath  our  thoughts,  thoughts  hidden  thickly  teem  ; 

Each  mind  is  but  a  stream  above  a  stream. 

Given  a  story,  what  dissimilar  one 

May  't  not  remind  you  of  before  'tis  done  ! 

Scarce  had  the  Scotchman's  tale  been  fairly  told, 

When  a  quaint  farmer,  wrinkled  but  not  old, 

Hastened  to  execute  a  cross-leg  change, 

And  with  no  consciousness  of  seeming  strange, 

Leaped  from  the  thought-depths  that  had  him  immersed, 

His  conversational  puff-ball  sharply  burst, 

Contributing,  with  countenance  severe, 

These  notes,  from  his  pecuniary  career, 

As  if  the  average  listener  it  might  strike, 

That  the  two  tales  were  sing'larly  alike: 

[THE    LIGHTNING-ROD    DISPENSER] 

Which  this  railroad  smasli  reminds  me,  in  an  underhanded  way, 
Of  a  lightning-rod  dispenser  that  came  down  on  me  one  day ; 
Oiled  to  order  in  his  motions — sanctimonious  in  his  mien- 
Hands  as  white  as  any  baby's,  an'  a  face  unnat'ral  clean  ; 
Not  a  wrinkle  had  his  raiment,  teeth  and  linen  glittered  white, 
And  his  new-constructed  neck-tie  was  an  interest! n'  sight ! 


go  Farm  Festivals. 

Which  I  almost  wish  a  razor  had   made  red  that  white-skinned  throat. 
And  that  new-constructed  neck-tie  had  composed  a  hangman's  knot, 
Ere    he    brought    his    sleek- trimmed    carcass    for    my   woman -folks   to 

see, 
And  his  buzz-saw  tongue  a-runnin'  for  to  gouge  a  gash  in  me ! 

Still  I  couldn't  help  but  like  him — as  I  fear  I  al'ays  must, 

The  gold  o'  my  own  doctrines  in  a  fellow-heap  o'  dust ; 

For  I  saw  that  my  opinions,  when  I  fired  'em  round  by  round, 

Brought  back  an  answerin'  volley  of  a  mighty  similar  sound. 

I  touched  him  on  religion,  and  the  joys  my  heart  had  known  : 

And  I  found  that  he  had  very  similar  notions  of  his  own  ! 

I  told  him  of  the  doubtings  that  made  sad  my  boyhood  years : 

Why,  he'd  laid  awake  till  morning  with  that  same  old  breed  of  fears ! 

I  pointed  up  the  pathway  that  I  hoped  to  Heaven  to  go  : 

He  was  on  that  very  ladder,  only  just  a  round  below ! 

Our  politics  was  different,  and  at  first  he  galled  and  winced ; 

But  I  arg'ed  him  so  able,  he  was  very  soon  convinced. 

And  'twas  gettin'  tow'rd  the  middle  of  a  hungry  Summer  day — 
There  was  dinner  on  the  table,  and  I  asked  him,  would  he  stay  ? 
And  he  sat  him  down  among  us — everlastin'  trim  and  neat — 
And  he  asked  a  short  crisp  blessin'  almost  good  enough  to  eat ! 
Then  he  fired  up  on  the  mercies  of  our  Everlastin'  Friend, 
Till  he  gi'n  The  Lord  Almighty  a  good  first-class  recommend ; 
And  for  full  an  hour  we  listened  to  that  sugar-coated  scamp — 
Talkin'  like  a  blessed  angel — eatin'  like  a  blasted  tramp ! 

My  wife — she  liked  the  stranger,  smiling  on  him,  warm  and  sweet ; 

(It  al'ays  flatters  women  when  their  guests  are  on  the  eat !) 

And  he  hinted  that  some  ladies  never  lose  their  youthful  charms, 

And  caressed  her  yearlin'  baby,  an'  received  it  in  his  arms. 

My  sons  and  daughters  liked  him — for  he  had  progressive  views, 

And  he  chewed  the  cud  o'  fancy,  and  gi'n  down  the  latest  news; 

And  /  couldn't  help  but  like  him — as  I  fear  I  al'ays  must, 

The  gold  of  my  own  doctrines  in  a  fellow-heap  o'  dust. 

He  was  chiselin'  desolation  through  a  piece  of  apple-pie, 
When  he  paused  an'  gazed  upon  us,  with  a  tear  in  his  off-eye, 


The  Festival  of  Anecdote.  91 

And  said,  "  Oh  happy  family ! — your  joys   they  make  me  sad  ! 
They  all  the  time  remind  me  of  the  dear  ones  once  /  had ! 
A  babe  as  sweet  as  this  one  ;   a  wife  almost  as  fair ; 
A  little  girl  with  ringlets — like  that  one  over  there. 
But  had  I  not  neglected  the  means  within  ray  way, 
Then  they  might  still  be  living,  and  loving  me  to-day. 

"One  night  there  came  a  tempest;  the  thunder-peals  were  dire; 

The  clouds  that  marched  above  us  were  shooting  bolts  of  fire ; 

In  my  owTn  house  I  lying,  was  thinking,  to  my  blame, 

How  little  I  had  guarded  against  those  bolts  of  flame, 

When  crash  ! — through  roof  and  ceiling  the  deadly  lightning  cleft, 

And  killed  my  wife  and  children,  and  only  I  was  left ! 

"Since  then  afar  I've  wandered,  and  naught  for  life  have  cared, 
Save  to  save  others'  loved  ones  whose  lives  have  yet  been  spared  ; 
Since  then,  it  is  my  mission,  where'er  by  sorrow  tossed, 
To  sell  to  worthy  people  good  lightning-rods  at  cost. 
With  sure  and  strong  protection  I'll  clothe  your  buildings  o'er; 
'Twill  cost  you — twenty  dollars  (perhaps  a  trifle  more  ; 
Whatever  else  it  comes  to,  at  lowrest  price  I'll  put ; 
You  simply  sign  a  contract  to  pay  so  much  per  foot)." 

I — signed  it !  while  my  family,  all  approving  stood  about ; 

The  villain  dropped  a  tear  on  't — but  he  didn't  blot  it  out ! 

That  self-same  day,  with  wagons  came  some  rascals  great  and  small ; 

They  hopped  up  on  my  buildin's  just  as  if  they  owned  'em  all ; 

They  hewed  'em  and  they  hacked  'em — ag'in'  my  loud  desires — 

They  trimmed  'em  off  with  gewgaws,  and  they  bound  'em  down  with  wires; 

They  hacked  'em  and  they  hewed  'em,  and  they  hewed  and  hacked  'em 

still, 
And  every  precious  minute  kep'  a  runriin'  up  the  bill. 

To  find  my  soft-spoke  neighbor,  did  I  rave  and  rush  an'  run  : 
He  was  ^uppin'  with  a  neighbor,  just  a  few  miles  further  on. 
"  Do  you  think,"  I  loudly  shouted,  "  that  I  need  a  mile  o'  wire. 
For  to  save  each  separate  hay-cock  out  o'  heaven's  consumin'  fire? 
Did  you  think,  to  keep  my  buildin's  out  o'  some  uncertain  harm, 
I  was  goin'  to  deed  you  over  all  the  balance  of  my  farm  ?" 


92 


Farm  Festivals. 


'  ,0-Vv'    '         '' 


Kg  j 


"  'TWAS    THE     VERY    FIRST    OCCASION    HE     HAD    DISAGREED     WITH    MK  !" 


He  silenced  me  with  silence  in  a  very  little  while, 
And  then  trotted  out  the  contract  with  a  reassuring  smile  ; 
And  for  half  an  hour  explained  it,  with  exasperatin'  skill, 
While  his  myrmurdnms  kep'  probably  a-runnin'  np  iny  bill. 
He  held  me  to  that  contract  with  a  firmness  queer  to  see  ; 
'Twas  the  very  first  occasion  he  had  disagreed  with  me  ! 
And  for  that  'ere  thunder  story,  ere  the  rascal  finally  went, 
I  paid  two  hundred  dollars,  if  I  paid  a  single  cent. 


And  if  any  lightnin'-rodist  wants  a  dinner-dialogue 
With  the  restaurant  department  of  an  enterprisin'  dog, 


The  Festival  of  Anecdote.  93 

Let  him  set  his  mouth  a-runnin',  just  inside  my  outside  gate  ; 
And  I'll  bet  two  hundred  dollars  that  he  don't  have  long  to  wait. 

VI. 

"  Time  to  shut  up,"  the  lean  store-keeper  said  : 

"  It's  time  that  honest  folks  should  be  in  bed. 

And  all  this  crowd  I  honest  hold  to   be, 

And  penniless,  so  far  as  I  can  see  ; 

If  there's  a  cent  here,  it's  well  out  of  sight ; 

My  cash-box  has  not  seen  it ;   friends,  good-night !" 


THE    FESTIVAL    OF    CLAMOR; 

OR, 

THE   TOWN  MEETING. 

'TwAS  our  regular  annual  town-meeting; 

And  smooth  as  a  saint  could  desire, 
Our  work  we  were  swiftly  completing, 

Till  it  came  to  electing  a  "  Squire  " ; 

Which  office  retained  a  slight  vestige 
Of  old  country  power,  as  it  were, 

And  most  of  the  honor  and  prestige 
A  township  like  ours  could  confer. 

Which  office  (with  latitude  speaking), 
Commencing  nobody  knew  when, 

Had  long  been  relentlessly  seeking 
Two  very  respectable  men  ; 

For  in  virtuous  political  cases, 

'Tis  known  as  the  regular  plan, 

That  the  man  must  not  seek  for  the  places; 
The  places  must  seek  for  the  man. 

But  past  these  two  men,  and  around  them, 
The  squireship  had  happened  to  roam, 

And,  strangely,  had  never  yet  found  them, 
Although  they  were  always  at  home ; 

And  manfully  laid  fear  behind  them  ; 

And  whispered  to  friends  far  and  wide, 
That  if  office  was  anxious  to  find  them, 

They  never  were  going  to  hide ! 


The  Festival  of  Clamor.  95 

And  now,  in  undignified  action, 

Themselves  and  their  partisans  fought, 
To  decide,  to  their  own  satisfaction, 

Which  one  'twas  the  office  had  sought. 

A  half  day  we  clamored  arid  voted, 

And  each  to  success  drew  him  nigh, 
But  neither  as  victor  was  quoted : 

It  always  resulted  "  a  tie ;" 

All  voted  for  one  or  the  other; 

Except  two  young  barbarous  elves, 
Who,  simply  proceedings  to  bother, 

Kept  voting,  like  sin,  for  themselves; 

(Except  a  few  times,  it  was  noted, 

Some  charges  of  self-love  to  smother, 
A  conf  rence  they  had,  ere  they  voted, 

Then  proceeded  to  "go"  for  each  other!) 

So  all  of  our  voting  and  prating, 

To  neither  side  victory  brought, 
While  the  office  stood  patiently  waiting 

To  find  out  which  one  it  had  sought. 

Till,  tired  of  these  semi-reverses, 

A  few  of  the  worst  of  each  clan 
Loaded  up  their  word-guns  with  sly  curses, 

And  fired  at  the  opposite  man. 

And  morally  petrified  wretches, 

These  two  men  to  be  were  allowed, 
In  small  biographical  sketches 

That  began  to  appear  in  the  crowd. 

The  one,  as  a  swindler  high-handed, 

Was  painted  unpleasantly  plain  ; 
With  pockets  like  bladders  expanded, 

And  filled  with  unstatesman-like  gain  ; 


Farm  Festivals. 

They  stated  that  all  his  life-labors 
Were  tinged  with  pecuniary  sin  ; 

That  things  left  out  nights  by  his  neighbors, 
They  frequently  failed  to  take  in; 


"A    HALF    DAY    WK    CLAMORKD    AND    VOTED.' 


They  claimed  that  his  business  transactions 
Flowered  out  at  the  people's  expense; 

And  named,  as  among  these  subtractions, 
Three  dollars  and  twenty-nine  cents. 


The  Festival  of  Clamor.  97 

I^o  odds  that  he  stoutly  denied  it — 

It  hushed  not  the  clamor  at  all ; 
Yet  all  the  more  fiercely  they  cried  it, 

And  chalked  the  amount  on  the  wall. 

And  a  letter  was  found  that  convicted 

This  man  to  have  some  time  been  led 
To  have  some  time  somehow  contradicted 

Some  things  that  he  some  time  had  said. 

But  really,  until  very  recent, 

His  name  had  not  been  a  bad  word ; 
But  naught  he  had  done  that  was  decent, 

To  the  minds  of  his  foes  now  occurred. 

His  nature  was  kindly  intentioned, 

And  free  from  ungenerous  taint ; 
A  fact  not  obtrusively  mentioned, 

In  his  enemies'  hill  of  complaint. 

He  rose  from  a  low,  humble  station ; 

His  boy-life  was  sturdy  and  good; 
He  was  hard-striving  youth's  inspiration  ; 

They  kept  that  as  still  as  they  could. 

He  'had  sown  gold  successes  for  others; 

He  cast  a  kind  glance  upon  all ; 
No  true  men  but  what  were  his  brothers ; 

They  did  not  chalk  that  on  the  wall. 

He  was  cultured,  and  broad,  and  discerning; 

Strong  thoughts  on  his  countenance  sat; 
He  dwelt  by  the  fountains  of  learning; 

They  never  accused  him  of  that. 

In  short,  had  he  heard  the  malicious 

Black  words  that  were  throttling  his  cause. 

He'd  have  shuddered  to  learn  what  a  vicious 
Unholy  old  villain  he  was ; 


98  Farm  Festivals. 

And,  terms  theological  using, 

He  e'en  might  have  wished  he  were  dead, 
Had  not  the  same  linguistic  bruising 

Adorned  his  antagonist's  head. 


They  said  he  was  haughty  in  greeting; 

Above  all  his  neighbors  he  felt, 
And  to  make  him  look  slender  in  meeting, 

Wore  under  his  jacket  a  belt ; 


That  he  always  had  hoped  and  expected 
The  place  he  now  openly  sought, 

But  knew  not  enough,  if  elected, 
The  office  to  fill  as  he  ought ; 

That  he  just  hummed  the  ancient  tune  "Tariff," 
When  other  folks  shouted  and  sang  ; 

That  he  once  had  the  luck  to  be  sheriff, 
When  a  woman  was  sentenced  to  hang  ; 

That  his  mind  he  had  long  been  diverting 

With  future  political  fame, 
His  head  in  a  barrel  inserting, 

And  shouting  out  "  Squire "  to  his  name ; 

And  while,  like  a  ball,  the  words  bounded, 
And  doubled  themselves,  o'er  and  o'er, 

He  pondered  how  pompous  it  sounded, 
And  went  on  and  did  it  some  more  ; 

And  that  this  rather  terse  conversation, 
And  having  been  oft  at  it  caught, 

Comprised  all  the  qualification 

He  had  for  the  office  he  sought. 

Now  his  life  had  the  grim,  noble  beauty 
The  deed-painter's  brush  loves  to  tell ; 

He  was  one  who  had  studied  his  duty, 
And  done  it  exceedingly  wrell ; 


The  Festival  of  Clamor.  99 

He  was  one  of  the  bravest  and  quickest 

To  shield  threatened  Liberty's  form  ; 
He  stood  where  the  bullets  were  thickest, 

To  cover  her  safe  from  the  storm  ; 

Well  framed  for  his  foes'  admiration — 

Well-named  by  his  friends  "  The  Superb  " ; 

A  part  of  the  edge  of  the  nation— 
His  whole  life  a  transitive  verb; — 

He  was  worthy  and  grand — who  conld  doubt  it  I 

His  fame  was  as  fresh  as  the  morn  ; 
But  his  foemen  forgot  all  about  it. 

And  drabbled  his  name  with  their  scorn. 

No  odds  how  turned  out  the  election, 

Concerning  the  lesson  I'd  teach  ; 
But  my  conscience  that  night,  on  reflection, 

Made  me  this  political  speech  : 

"  'Tis  over  high  time  you  repented, 

You  servile  young  partisan  hound, 
For  being  to-day  represented 

In  that  idiot  asylum  of  sound ! 

"Henceforth,  in  these  conflicts  exciting, 

Learn,  whether  by  speech  or  by  pen?  . 
With  principle's  sword  to  be  fighting, 

And  not  to  be  slandering  men" 


THE    FESTIVAL    OF    MELODY; 

* 

OR, 

THE   SINGING-SCHOOL. 

ME.  ABRAHAM  BATES  was  a  tune-stricken  man, 

Built  on  an  exclusively  musical  plan ; 

With  a  body  and  soul  that  with  naught  could  commune. 

Unless  it  might  somehow  be  set  to  a  tune. 

His  features,  harmoniously  solemn  and  grim, 

Resembled  a  doleful  old  long-rneter  hymn  ; 

His  smile,  half-obtrusively  gentle  and  calm, 

Suggested  the  livelier  notes  of  a  psalm  ; 

And  his  form  had  a  power  the  appearance  to  lend 

Of  an  overgrown  tuning-fork,  set  upon  end. 

They  who  his  accomplishments  fathomed,  averred 

That  he  knew  every  tune  that  he  ever  had  heard  ; 

And  his  wife  had  a  secret  we  all  helped  her  keep, 

That  he  frequently  snored  a  rough  tune  in  his  sleep. 

When  he  walked  through  the  fields,  with  an  inward-turned  ear, 

And  a  general  impression  that  no  one  was  near, 

He  with  forefinger  stretched  to  its  fullest  command, 

Would  beat  quadruple  time  on  the  palm  of  his  hand 

(So  firmly  his  singing-school  habits  would  cling), 

With  his  "Down,  left,  right,  up!    down,  left,  right,  up!     Sing!" 

What  a  monarch  he  was,  to  us  tune-killing  wights, 

When  he  stood  in  the  school-house,  on  long  Winter  nights, 

With  a  dignity  born  our  young  souls  to  o'erwhelm, 

Proclaiming  the  laws  of  his  musical  realm  ! 

The  black-board  behind  him  frowned  fierce  on  our  sight, 

Its  old  forehead  creased  with  five  wrinkles  of  white, 


m 


The  Festival  of  Melody.  103 

On  which  lie  paraded  his  armies  of  notes, 

Arid  sent  on  a  raid  through  our  eyes  to  our  throats  ; 

From  the  scenes  of  which  partly  harmonious  turmoils 

They  issued,  head-first,  with  our  breath  as  their  spoils. 

How  (in  his  particular  specialty)  grand 

He  looked,  as  he  tiptoed,  with  baton  in  hand, 

And  up,  down,  and  up,  in  appropriate  time, 

Compelled  us  that  slippery  ladder  to  climb, 

As  he  flourished  his  weapon,  and  marched  to  and  fro, 

With  his  "  Do,  re,  mi,  fa,  sol,  la,  sol,  la,  si,  do !" 

Nathaniel  F.  Jennings!  how  sadly  you  tried, 

With  your  eyes  a  third  closed,  and  your  mouth  opened  wide, 

To  sport  an  acceptable  voice,  like  the  rest, 

And  cultivate  powers  that  you  never  possessed ! 

They  wrere  just  out  of  music,  it  used  to  be  said, 

When  they  drafted  the  plan  of  your  square,  shaggy  head. 

You  fired  at  each  note,  as  it  wrere,  in  the  dark, 

As  an  amateur  rifleman  would  at  a  mark  ; 

And  short  of  opinion,  till  after  the  shot, 

Of  w'hether  you'd  happen  to  hit  it  or  riot. 

E'eri  then  you  didn't  know,  till  your  sharp  eye  was  told 

By  the  way  that  the  master's  would  flatter  or  scold. 

The  latter  more  oft ;  for  your  chances,  sad  wight, 

Were  seven  to  be  wrong  against  one  to  be  right, 

And  ne'er  was  a  tune  so  rnellifluously  choice, 

You  could  not  embitter  the  same,  with  your  voice. 

But  though  your  grim  head  hadn't  the  shade  of  a  tone, 

Your  heart  had  a  musical  style  of  its  own  ; 

And  we  all  found  it  out,  'neath  the  forest-trees  wild, 

The  last  nio-ht  we  hunted  for  Davis's  child. 

O 

"May  as  well  give  it  up,"  said  our  leader:  "No  good; 
We've  hunted  three  days  and  three  nights  in  this  wood  ; 
We  may  as  well  look  at  it  just  as  it  is : 
He's  eaten  or  starved,  long  enough  before  this." 
And  Davis  spoke  up:   "It's  a  fact,  boys ;  he's  right"; 
But  he  leaned  'gainst  a  tree,  looking  death-like  and  white. 
You  exclaimed,  when  your  eyes  his  mute  agony  met, 
"I'll  be  blanked  if  I'll  stand  this!     I'll  hunt  a  week  vet!" 


IO4  Farm  Festivals. 

Poor  Davis  crept  round  till  he  got  by  your  side, 

Caught  hold  of  your  hand  like  a  baby,  and  cried, 

A  picture  of  grateful,  incompetent  woe — 

('Twas  rather  dramatic,  as  incidents  go ;) 

Then  we  all  of  us  yelled,  in  a  magnetized  cry, 

An  absurd  proposition  to  find  him,  or  die. 

It  was  only  an  hour  and  a  quarter  from  then 

Your  wing-shout  came  skurryirig  o'er  woodland  and  glen, 

As  if  to  go  round  the  whole  world  it  would  strive, 

"I've  found  the  young  blank,  an'  lie's  here  an'  alive!" 

Your  voice  had,  as  usual,  less  music  than  might, 

But  you  led  a  remarkable  chorus  that  night ; 

An  anthem  of  joy  swelled  from  many  a  throat, 

And  you,  as  our  chorister,  gave  the  first  note. 

When  your  hand  was  near  squeezed  out  of  shape  by  your  mates, 

None  shook  it  more  warmly  than  Abraham  Bates; 

'Who,  suggesting  (to  you)  an  impossible  thing, 

Shouted,  "Down,  up!  down,  up!     Sing!" 

Little  Clarissa  Smith!  how  you  thrilled  through  us  all, 

"When  you  made  that  young  soul-sweetened  voice  rise  and  fall ! 

The  whippoor will's  voice  is  sweet-spoken  and  true, 

But  not  with  a  heart  and  a  spirit  like  you ; 

The  lark  trails  the  music  of  earth  through  the  skies, 

But  the  flame  of  her  song  does  not  flash  from  her  eyes ! 

Our  girl  prima-donna ! — Your  fame  was  not  spread, 

Nor  by  world-wide  applauses  your  vanity  fed ; 

But  you  star  with  a  grand  brilliant  company,  now : 

The  laurels  of  Heaven  have  encircled  your  brow. 

'Twas  a  dreary  procession  you  led  on  that  day 

When  so  still  in  the  old-fashioned  coffin  you  lay  ; 

No  delicate  casket,  grief-laden  with  care, 

And  trimmed  with  exotics  expensive  and  rare, 

Had  ever  more  tears  on  its  occupant  shed 

Than  you,  in  your  old-fashioned  coffin  of  red. 

'Twas  strange  how  the  unstudied  wiles  of  your  art 

Had  soothed  and  delighted  the  average  heart ; 

How  much  of  Heaven's  glory  had  glittered  and  smiled 

Through  the  cultureless  voice  of  an  innocent  child. 


The  Festival  of  Melody.  105 

Yon  looked  very  pretty,  and  half  saucy,  there, 

With  natural  flowers  in  your  girlish-combed  hair; 

And  a  little  old  half-worn-out  book  on  your  breast, 

Containing  the  hymns  that  you  used  to  sing  best. 

The  roughest  old  villain  that  lived  in  our  town 

Stood  back  from  the  grave,  arid,  with  head  hanging  down, 

Was  heard,  in  a  reverent  whisper,  to  say, 

"  Heaven  needed  that  voice,  and  God  took  it  away." 

And  Abraham  Bates,  who,  'twas  general  belief, 

Had  never  before  given  rein  to  a  grief, 

Felt  sorrow  sweep  over  his  heart  like  a  storm, 

When  it  came,  as  it  were,  in  a  musical  form  ; 

And  choked  down  and  sobbed,  with  eyes  filled  to  the  brim, 

While  attempting  to  lead  in  the  funeral  hymn. 

And  long  when  the  sound  of  that  sorrow  had  wraned, 

In  his  rough  old  heart-caverns  its  echo  remained ; 

And  audible  tears  to  the  surface  would  spring, 

Of  that  "Down,  left,  up!  down,  left,  up!     Sing!" 

Mrs.  Caroline  Dean,  how  you  revelled  in  song! 
There  was  no  singing-school  to  which  you  didn't  belong, 
Save  in  some  locality  far  away,  so 
That  you  and  your  meek  little  husband  couldn't  go. 
What  a  method  was  yours,  of  appearing  prepared 
To  make  every  tune  in  the  note-book  look  scared! 
Your  voice  was  voluminous,  rather  than  rich, 
And  not  predistinguished  for  accurate  pitch ; 
But  you  seemed  every  word  to  o'erpoweringly  feel, 
And  humbled  and  drove  away  skill  with  your  zeal. 
The  villain  referred  to  above,  on  the  day 
That  you  and  your  larynx  were  safe  stowed  away, 
Didn't  make  the  remark  he  was  credited  with 
At  the  time  of  the  burial  of  Clarissa  Smith, 
But  muttered,  as  low  with  himself  he  communed, 
"I  suppose  she  will  do,  when  they  get  her  retimed." 
Though  the  strains  of  the  choir  sounded  weak  and  afraid 
Without  your  soprano's  stentorian  aid, 
Mr.  Abraham  Bates,  if  I  was  not  deceived, 
Worked  lighter  in  harness,  and  acted  relieved ; 

8 


IO6  Farm  Festivals. 

And  when  the  hymn  stated  you  "  lovely  and  mild," 
And  "as  suinmer  breeze  gentle,"  he  very  near  smiled; 
For  those  who  had  learned  his  biography,  knew 
He  had  rather  encounter  a  tempest  than  yon, 
When  he  dared,  with  a  placating,  angular  smile, 
To  venture  a  hint  on  your  musical  style. 
You  remember  how  promptly  he  wilted,  among 
The  tropical  rays  of  your  scorn-blazing  tongue; 
For  your  talents  you  easily  turned,  when  you  chose, 
From  fancy-gemmed  song  into  plain  business  prose. 
You  knew  how  to  make  him  as  miserably  meek 
As  a  tin-peddler's  horse  at  the  close  of  the  week. 
You  knew  how  to  make  a  most  desperate  thing 
That  "  Down,  left,  right,  up  !     Sing!" 

Sweet  hymn-tunes  of  old  ! — You  had  blood  in  your  hearts, 

That  pulsed  glowing  life  through  your  several  parts  : 

From  bass  to  soprano  it  surgingly  climbed, 

As  grandly  the  chords  of  your  melody  chimed  ! 

"  Coronation,"  that  brought  royal  splendors  in  view, 

And  solemn  "  Old  Hundred,"  invariably  new— 

That  golden  sledge-hammer,  of  ponderous  grace, 

That  drove  every  word  like  a  wedge  to  its  place  ; 

"  Balerma,"  of  melody  full  to  the  brim, 

And  "Pleyel's"  grandly  plaintive  melodious  hymn; 

With  others,  that  memory's  ear  loves  to  greet, 

Which,  with  different  names,  might  have  sounded  less  sweet. 

Then  with  what  a  loud  concatenation  of  sounds 

We  charged  in  our  might  on  the  glees  and  the  rounds  ! 

There  was  nothing,  though  polished,  or  harsh  and  unkempt, 

That  we  had  not  courage  enough  to  attempt ; 

And  if  tunes,  when  suggestion  of  murder  arrives, 

Were  not  gifted,  like  cats,  with  a  number  of  lives, 

There's  many  a  living  and  healthy  old  strain, 

We'd  have  sent  long  ago  to  repose  with  the  slain. 

O  strong  Winter  nights  !  when  all  earth  was  aglow 
With  crystal  stars  dancing  on  meadows  of  snow  ; 


The  Festival  of  Melody.  107 

When  the  blade  of  youth,  hiked  with  pleasure's  gold  wreath, 
Flashed  out  of  its  home  like  a  sword  from  a  sheath, 
And  advanced  o'er  the  plains  and  the  hill-tops,  to  dare 
The  quick-cutting  edge  of  the  frost-tempered  air ! 
How  through  foaming  drifts  we  careened  to  and  fro, 
And  tossed  the  white  waves  with  our  ship  of  the  snow, 
Which  fluttered  far  back,  as  we  sailed  swift  along, 
A  streamer  of  rich  elementary  song  ! 

O  tall,  queenly  nights  !    to  eternity's  haze 

You  have  followed  your  short  little  husbands  of  days  ; 

But  jeweled  and  braided  with  youth-freshened  strains, 

Your  memory-ghosts  walk  the  hills  and  the  plains. 

Not  one  of  life's  glittering  subsequent  nights, 

With  feverish  pleasures  and  costly  delights, 

On  treasure-fringed  harbors  and  sail-whitened  bays, 

Not  nights  lit  with  fashion's  cold,  variable  blaze, 

Not  when  the  gay  opera's  beauty-sown  song 

Plants  passion's  red  flowers  in  the  hearts  of  the  throng ; 

No  nights,  dressed  in  splendor  and  carried  with  grace, 

Old  brave  Winter  nights,  can  e'er  stand  in  your  place; 

Till  the  long  one   of  death  may  perhaps  bring  us  nigh 

To  the  star-lighted  singing  school  held  in  the  sky. 


THE   FESTIVAL    OF   INDUSTKY; 

OR, 

THE   COUNTY  FAIR. 

I. 

THEY  brought  the  best  and  sleekest  of  their  flocks — 
The  milkiest  cow,  the  squarest-shonldered  ox  ; 
The  bull,  with  mimic  thunder  in  his  cry, 
And  lightning  in  each  eager,  wicked  eye ; 


"THE  INDIAN  CORN-EARS,  PRODIGAL  OF  YIELD." 

The  sheep  that  had  the  heaviest  garments  worn, 
The  cock  that  crowed  the  loudest  in  the  morn  ; 


The  Festival  of  Industry. 

The  mule,  unconscious  hypocrite  and  knave, 
The  horse,  proud  high-born  Asiatic  slave ; 
The  playful  calf,  with  eyes  precocious-bright, 
The  hog — grim  quadrupedal  appetite  ; 
The  Indian  corn-ears,  prodigal  of  yield, 
The  golden  pumpkin,  nugget  of  the  field ; 


1 1 1 


"THE  PEACH — RICH  ALTO  OF  THE  ORCHARD'S  TUNE." 


The  merriest-eyed  potatoes,  nursed  in  gloom, 

Just  resurrected  from  their  cradle-tomb  ; 

Rich  apples,  mellow-cheeked,  sufficient  all 

To  've  tempted  Eve  to  fall — to  make  them  fall ; 

The  grapes,  whose  picking  served  strong  vines  to  prune, 

The  peach — rich  alto  of  the  orchard's  tune ; 

The  very  best  the  farmers',  land  had  grown, 

They  brought  to  this  menagerie  of  their  own. 

But  listen  !  from  among  the  scattered  herds 

Came  to  my  hearing  these  equestrian  words : 


Farm  Festivals. 

[DIALOGUE   OF   THE   HORSES.] 

FIRST    HORSE. 

We  are  the  pets  of  men — 
The  pampered  pets  of  men  ! 
There  is  naught  for  us  too  gentle  and  good 
In  the  graceful  days  of  our  babyhood  ; 
We  frisk  and  caper  in  childish  glee — 
Oh,  none  so  pretty  and  proud  as  we ! 
They  cheer  and  cherish  us  in  our  play — 
Oh,  none  so  smilingly  sweet  as  they  ! 
And  when  a  little  our  lives  have  grown, 
Each  has  a  table  and  room  his  own, 
A  waiter  to  fill  his  bill  of  fare, 
A  barber  to  clean  and  comb  his  hair. 
Yes,  we  are  the  pets  of  men  ! 
The  pampered  pets  of  men  ! 
They  show  us,  gayly  dressed  and  proud, 
To  the  eager  eyes  of  the  clamorous  crowd  ; 
They  champion  us  in  the  rattling  race, 
They  praise  our  beauty  and  cheer  our  pace ; 
They  keep  for  us  our  family  trees — 
They  trumpet  our  names  beyond  the  seas  * 
They  hang  our  portraits  on  their  walls, 
And  paint  and  garnish  and  gild  our  stalls. 
Yes,  we  are  the  pets  of  men— 
The  pampered  pets  of  men  ! 

SECOND    HORSE. 

We  are  the  slaves  of  men — 
The  menial  slaves  of  men  ! 
They  lash  us  over  the  dusty  roads, 
They  bend  us  down  with  murderous  loads ; 
They  fling  vile  insults  on  our  track, 
And  know  that  we  can  not  answer  back; 
In  winds  of  Winter,  or  Summer  sun, 
The  tread  of  our  toil  is  never  done ; 


The  Festival  of  Industry.  \  \ 

And   when  we  are  weak,  and   old,  and  lame, 
And   labor-stiffened,  and  bowed  with  shame, 
And  hard  of  hearing,  and  blind  of  eye, 
They  drive  us  out  in  the  world  to  die. 

Yes,  \ve  are  the  slaves  of  men — 

The  slaves  of  selfish  men  ! 
They  draft  us  into  their  bloody  spites, 
They  spur  us,  bleeding,  into  their  lights; 
They  poison  our  souls  with  their  senseless  ire, 
And  curse  us  into  a  storm  of  lire. 
And  when  to  death  we  are  bowed  and  bent, 
And  take  the  ball  that  for  them  was  meant, 
Alone  they  leave  us  to  groan  and  bleed, 
And  dash  their  spurs  in  another  steed  ! 

Yes,  we  are  the  slaves  of  men — 

The  slaves  of  brutish  men  ! 


II. 

The  grim  mechanic  waved  a  hardened  hand — 
Behold  !  on  every  side  his  trophies  stand : 
The  new-made  plow,  with  curving  iron  beam, 
The  thresher,  with  its  snowy  plume  of  steam  ; 
The  cultivator,  striped,  gay,  and  proud, 
With  new  ideas  and  dental  wealth  endowed  ; 
The  windmill,  now  once  more  at  work  for  men, 
Like  some  old  help  discharged  and  hired  again  ; 
The  patent  churns,  whose  recommends  would  seem 
To  promise  butter,  almost  without  cream  ; 
Sewing-machines,  of  several-woman  power, 
And  destitute  of  gossip,  sweet  or  sour. 
The  loud  piano  raised  its  voice  on  high, 
And  sung  the  constant  chorus,  Who  will  buy  \ 
The  patent  washer  strove  to  clinch  the  creed 
That  cleanliness  and  laziness  agreed  ; 
The  reaper,  resting  idly  on  its  wheel, 
Held  forth  a  murderous  arm  of  iron  and  steel, 
And  seemed  to  think  'twas  waiting  over-long 
Before  it  might  begin  its  rattling  song: 


1 1 4  Farm  Festivals. 

[SONG   OF   THE   REAPER.] 

My  grandfather  was  right  little  and  old, 
And  crooked  and  worn  was  he  ; 

But  his  teeth  were  good,  and  his  heart  was  bold? 

And  he  swam  the  waves  of  a  sea  of  gold, 

But  lie  couldn't  keep  up  with  me — me — me — 
Couldn't  keep  up  with  me. 

Then  hie  !  away  to  the  golden  plain  ! 

We  will  crash  and  dash  through  glistening  grain, 

And  gather  the  wealth  of  earth  and  sun, 

And  the  world  will  eat  when  our  work  is  done ! 

My  father  he  was  bent  and  lean, 

But  a  wide-spread  hand  had  he ; 
And  his  fingers  they  were  long  and  clean, 
And  he  swung  his  broadsword  bright  and  keen, 
But  he  never  could  fight  with  me — me — me — 
Never  could  fight  with  me  ! 
Then  hie !  away  where  the  sunlight  sleeps, 
And  the  wide-floored  earth  a  granary  keeps; 
We  will  capture  its  bushels,  one  by  one, 
And  the  world  will  eat  when  our  work  is  done! 

The  grain-stalk  bows  his  bristling  head, 

As  I  clatter  and  clash  along, 
The  stubble  it  bends  beneath  my  tread, 
The  stacker's  yellow  tent  is  spread, 

And  the  hills  throw  back  my  song — my  song— 

The  hills  throw  back  my  song! 
Then  hie  !  where  the  food  of  nations  glows, 
And  the  yellow  tide  of  the  harvest  flows, 
As  we  dash  and  crash  and  glide  and  run  ; 
And  the  world  will  eat  when  our  work  is  done ! 


III. 

Edge  deftly  with  me  into  "Floral  Hall," 
Where  toil's  handwriting,  on  each  crowded  wall, 


•    The  Festival  of  Indiistry.  1 1 7 

Weighs  Industry  in  balance,  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  finds  the  greater  part  not  out-of-door. 
The  bread  loaf,  in  an  unobtrusive  place, 
Displays  its  cheerful,  honest  featured  face, 
A  coin  of  triumph,  from  the  mintage  struck, 
Of  chemistry,  skill,  faithfulness,  and  luck. 
What  statesman,  moulding  laws,  can  understand 
The  far-eyed  cunning  of  a  housewife's  hand  ? 
What  queen  her  subjects  with  more  anxious  eyes 
Can  watch,  than  she  her  "  emptyings,"  as  they  rise  ? 
What  conquest  gives  what  warrior  more  delight 
Than  she  has,  when  her  baking  comes  out  right? 
(Ah  me !  we  oft  know  not,  till  over-late, 
What  things  are  truly  small,  and  what  are  great ! 
'Tis  sometimes  hard  to  tell,  in  God's  vast  sky, 
What's  actually  low,  and  what  is  high !) 
Here  rests,  not  over- free  from  pain  and  ache, 
Bread's  proud,  rich,  city-nurtured  cousin,  Cake: 
Gay-plumaged  as  his  sisters  are,  the  pies- 
Food  chiefly  for  the  palate  and  the  eyes. 
These  canned  fruits,  like  the  four-and-twenty  birds 
Imprisoned  in  the  nursery  ballad's  words, 
Will  be  expected,  when  at  last  released, 
To  sing  sweet  taste-songs  for  some  Winter  feast. 
Proudly  displayed,  rich  trophies  there  are  found 
Of  the  fierce  needle's  thread-strewn  battle-ground  : 
This  is  a  bed-quilt — its  credentials  show- 
Stitched  by  a  grandame,  centuries  ago  ; 
That  is  embroider}7,  made  this  very  year, 
By  some  unteened  miss,  who  is  lurking  near. 
The  picture  family  is  abroad  to-day, 
Dressed  up  in  every  gaze-enticing  way : 
Here  an  oil-painting  pleads  for  truthful  art, 
Wrought  by  some  local  genius  with  his  heart ; 
He  sighs  to  see  his  soul  misunderstood, 
And  hear  them  call  the  picture  "pr'tty  good." 
Work  on,  poor  boy,  with  courage  that  endures: 
Stars  have  burst  forth  from  blacker  clouds  than  yours. 

9* 


1 1 8  Farm  Festivals. 

Feel  with  your  own  heart — think  with  your  own  mind, 

And  make  the  canvas  speak  the  thoughts  they  find ! 

The  eyes  may  not  be  very  far  away 

That  will,  on  some  glad,  unexpected  day, 

Bring  other  eyes  within  your  strange  control, 

And  lift  your  name  along-side  of  your  soul. 

This  is  the  town  photographer's  display  ; 

Who  shows  his  showiest  patrons  here  to-day. 

He  places  in  his  pillory  of  frames 

The  faces  of  the  town's  most  talked-of  names: 

The  mayor,  with  his  eyebrows  stiffly  arched, 

And  collar  unconditionally  starched, 

Shows,  through  this  careful  chemical  design, 

His  last  majority,  in  every  line. 

His  wife  hangs  in  an  advantageous  place, 

With  new-discovered  beauties  in  her  face, 

From  the  sun-artist's  thrifty,  cunning  trade: 

Photography,  you  are  a  flatt'ring  jade ! 

Some  of  their  subjects  dangling  here  are  found — • 

A  settlement  of  faces  clusters  round — 

A  kind  of  kingdom,  as  it  were,  in  sport : 

The  mayor  holding  photographic  court. 

Each  one  in  half-fictitious  splendor  's  dressed, 

Arid  each  is  doing  his  pictorial  best. 

The  artist,  grinning  down  a  look  of  gall, 

Worked  for  these  baby-pictures  most  of  all ; 

Dear,  dear!  how  low  he  had  to  bow  and  scrape,, 

To  keep  his  infant  popinjays  in  shape, 

And  hold  the  sinless  villain's  glance  in  check, 

To  save  his  shadow  enterprise  from  wreck ! 

To  keep  this  little  wandering  Arab-eye 

He  made  himself  a  miscellaneous  guy ; 

He  was  this  petty  tyrant's  vassal  true, 

His  portrait-painter,  and  court-jester,  too ; 

And,  that  a  first-class  picture  might  be  done, 

Made  himself  into  a  ridiculous  one; 

Said  "  Hooty-tooty,"  and  that  sort  of  thing, 

And  made  the  rattle-box  insanely  sing. 


The  Festival  of  Industry.  121 

But,  passing  from  these  posy-sprinkled  bowers 
(For  children's  features  are  the  facial  flowers), 
Come  with  me,  where  white  hands  have  thickly  strowu 
The  horticultural  house-pets  they  have  grown. 
What  are  but  weeds  beneath  a  southern  sky, 
Are  here,  as  house-plants,  rated  precious-high ; 
As  villains  go  to  uncongenial  climes, 
But,  being  less  known,  have  better  social  times. 
(So  our  old  Mullein,  here  of  deference  scant, 
Struts  round  in  England  as  "  The  Velvet  Plant ;" 
And  "  Cactus  "-  —Thistle  when  in  south-land  met 
is  here  a  prickly  flower,  to  keep  and  pet.) 
But  woman's  wand-like  nature  can,  indeed, 
Make  beauty  spring  from  e'en  a  common  weed ; 
How  much  more,  when,  around  some  flower-gem  rare 
She  throws  the  setting  of  her  tender  care ! 
Sweet  window-gardeners !  with  dainty  arts 
Tracing  the  floral  language  of  your  hearts, 
Making  The  Home,  with  these  gay-liveried  slaves, 
A  bloom-fed  island  'mid  the  winter-waves; 
In  which  the  frost-bit  caller  can  commune 
"With  bright  hours  stolen  from  some  day  in  June. 
'Tis  your  sweet,  cultured  taste  that  bids  us  call 
This 'niche  of  labor's  temple  "Floral  Hall." 

IV. 

The  people  stood  about  on  every  side, 
And  keenly  these  familiar  wonders  eyed, 
Each  minute  seeking  some  new  ocular  prize; 
But,  as  they  gazed  about,  their  greedy  eyes 
On  nothing  queerer  than  mankind  could  fall, 
And  so  they  watched  each  other  most  of  all. 
There  was  the  thrifty  farmer:  quickly  he 
Had  seen  about  all  that  he  wished  to  see, 
And  knew,  while  up  and  down  condemned  to  roam, 
How  much  more  he  should  feel  at  home,  at  home. 
The  farmer's  wife,  with  smiles  of  rural  grace 
Overflowing  from  her  soul  into  her  face. 


122  Farm  Festivals. 

Screamed  loud  as  each  acquaintance  hove  in  view, 

And  gave  the  cordial  cry,  "  How  dew  you  dew  ?" 

The  farmer's  boy  bore  vigor  in  his  tread, 

And  in  his  hands  a  block  of  gingerbread  ; 

The  farmer's  girl  was,  somewhat  prone  to  flirt, 

Watched  by  her  mother,  lest  she  come  to  hurt; 

Whose  words  had  full  as  much  effect  as  when, 

Around  some  pond,  an  anxious-eyed  old  hen 

To  draw  away  her  gosling-children  strives, 

And  take  them  from  their  life,  to  save  their  lives. 

The  doctors,  lawyers,  merchants,  and  that  kind, 

Looked  round,  their  old-time  customers  to  find, 

Or  shun — and  smiling  'mid  the  verbal  din, 

Dilated  on  their  country  origin. 

A  writer  for  the  Agricultural  Press, 

Who  farmed  (on  foolscap)  with  complete  success, 

Who  raised  great  crops  of  produce  in  a  wink, 

And  tilled  large  farms  with  paper,  pen,  and  ink — 

Who,  sitting  in-door,  at  a  regular  price, 

Gave  large  amounts  of  good  out-door  advice, 

And,  as  his  contribution  to  the  Fair, 

Had  brought  himself  and  an  oration  there — 

Arose,  in  somewhat  over-conscious  strength, 

And  gave  his  views  at  any  amount  of  length. 

As  when  the  sun  at  morning  upward  crowds 

His  kingly  path  through  thickly  gathered  clouds, 

Sometimes,  behold  !  these  vapor-birds  have  flown, 

Driven  by  his  rays,  and  left  him  there  alone, 

So  from  this  luminary,  fancy-fired, 

The  saddened  audience  gradually  retired; 

Though  still  stayed  where  they  were  when  he  began, 

Three  children,  and  a  very  deaf  old  man. 

And  even  these  showed  signs  of  weakening, 

When  the  sad  poet  rose,  and  with  a  fling 

Of  paper  that  a  ragman  might  rejoice, 

Remarked,  in  timidly  defiant  voice : 

"  Spirits  of  earth-dead  agriculturists  ! 

If  the  ghost  ear  to  rhythmic  nonsense  lists 


The  Festival  of  Industry.  123 

(And  if  I  have  a  hearing,  that  most  be, 
For  I'm  not  jostled  by  mortality)— 
Spirits,  if  you  should  deem  attention  due 
To  one  who  soon  must  starve  his  way  to  you 
(A  process  that  this  rich  world,  by-the-way, 
Is  aiding  quietly,  from  day  to  day, 
Seeming  to  think  the  poet's  proper  place 
Is  'mongst  his  own — ahem  ! — angelic  race), 
Oh  list  to  me,  said  spirits,  here  declare 
My  contribution  to  the  County  Fail- 
To  be  a  drop  of  rhythm  from  off  my  pen, 
Which  I  denominate 


THE  LABORING  MEN. 

Who  are  the  laboring  men  ? 

We  are  the  laboring  men : 
We,  the  muscle  of  tribes  and  lands, 
With  sun-trod  faces  and  horn-gloved  hands; 
With  well  patched  garments,  stained  and  coarse- 
With  untrained  voices,  heavy  and  hoarse ; 
Who  brave  the  death  of  the  noontide  heats — 
Who  mow  the  meadows  and  pave  the  streets  ; 
Who  push  the  plow  by  the  smooth  faced  sod, 
Or  climb  the  crags  with  a  well  filled  hod. 

Yes — we  are  the  laboring  men — 

The  genuine  laboring  men  ! 
And  each,  somewhere  in  the  stormy  sky, 
Has  a  sweet  love-star,  be  it  low  or  high  ; 
For  pride  have  we  to  do  and  dare, 
And  a  heart  have  we — to  cherish  and  care  ; 
And  power  have  we  :   for  lose  our  brawn, 
And  where  were  your  flourishing  cities  gone  ? 
Or  bind  our  hands  or  fetter  our  feet, 
And  what  would  the  gaunt  world  find  to  eat  ? 

Ay,  wrhere  were  your  gentry  then  ? 

For  we  are  the  laboring  men  ! 


124  Farm  Festivals. 

Who  are  the  laboring  men  ? 
We  are  the  laboring  men  : 
We  who   stand  in  the  ranks  of  trade, 


And  count  the  tallies  that  toil  has  made  ; 
Who  guard  the  coffers  of  wealth  untold, 
And  ford  the  streams  of  glistening,  gold ; 
Who  send  the  train  in  its  breathless  trips, 
And  rear  the  buildings,  and  sail  the  ships ; 
And  though  our  coats  be  a  trifle  fine, 
And  though  our  diamonds  flash  and  shine, 

Yet  we  are  the  laboring  men — 

The  genuine  laboring  men  ! 
We  bolt  the  gates  of  the  angry  seas  ; 
We  keep  the  nation's  granary  keys  ; 
The  routes  of  trade  we  have  built  and  planned 
Are  veins  of  life  to  a  hungry  land. 
And  power  have  we  in  our  peaceful  strife, 
For  a  nation's  trade  is  a  nation's  life  ; 
And  take  the  sails  of  our  commerce  in, 
Where  were  your  "  artisans'  .pails  of  tin  ?" 

Ay,  where  were  your  "  laborers  "  then  ? 

For  we  are  the  laboring  men  ! 

Who  are  the  laboring  men  ? 

We  are  the  laboring  men  : 
We  of  the  iron  and  water-way, 
Whom  fire  and  steam,  and  tide  obey  ; 
Who  stab  the  sea  with  a  prow  of  oak— 
Who  blot  the  sky  with  a  cloud  of  smoke ; 
Who  bend  the  breezes  unto  our  wills, 
And  feed  the  looms  and  hurry  the  mills  ; 
Who  oft  have  the  lives  of  a  thousand  known, 
In  the  hissing  valves  that  hold  our  own  ! 

Yes,  we  are  the  laboring  men— 

The  genuine  laboring  men  ! 
And  though  a  coat  may  a  button  lack, 
And  though  a  face  be  sooty  and  black, 
And  though  the  words  be  heavy  of  flow, 
And  new-called  thoughts  come  tardy  and  slow, 


The  Festival  of  Industry.  \  2  5 

And  though  rough  words  in  a  speech  m&y  blend, 
A  heart's  a  heart,  and  a  friend's  a  friend ! 
And  power  have  we :  but  for  our  skill, 
The  wave  would  drown,  and  the  sea  would  kill ; 

And  where  were  your  gentry  then  ? 

Ay,  we  are  the  laboring  men ! 

Who  are  the  laboring  men? 

We  are  the  laboring  men  : 
We  of  the  mental  toil  and  strain, 
Who  stall  the  body  and  lash  the  brain  ; 
Who  wield  our  pen  when  the  world's  asleep, 
And  plead  with  mortals  to  laugh  or  weep; 
Who  bind  the  wound  and  plead  the  cause, 
Who  preach  the  sermons  and  make  the  laws; 
Who  man   the  stage  for  the  listening  throng, 
And  fisjht  the  devils  of  Shame  and   Wrong. 

o  ° 

Yes,  we  are  the  laboring  men— 

The  genuine  laboring  men  ! 
And  though  our  hands  be  small  and  white, 
And  though  our  flesh  be  tender  arid  light, 
And  though  our  muscle  be  soft  and  low, 
Our  red-blood-sluices  are  swift  of  flow  ! 
We've  power  to  kindle  Passion's  fire 
With  the  flame  of  rage  and  fell  desire  ; 
Or  quell,  with  soothing  words  arid  arts, 
To  throbs  of  grief,  the  leaping  hearts. 

And  who  shall  question,  then, 

That  we  are  the  laboring  men  ? 

Who  are  NOT  the  laboring  men  ? 

O 

They're  not  the  laboring  men : 
They  who  creep  in  dens  and  lanes, 
To  rob  their  betters  of  honest  gains ; 
The  rich  that  stoop  to  devour  the  poor; 
The  tramps  that  beg  from  door  to  door; 
The  rogues  who  love  a  darkened  sky, 
And  steal  and  rob,  and  cheat  and  lie ; 


1 26  Farm  Festivals. 

The  loafing  wights  and  senseless  bloats 
Who  drain  their  pockets  to  wet  their  throats! 
They're  not  the  laboring  men — 
The  genuine  laboring  men ! 
And  all  true  hearts  that  the  price  would  give 
For  honest  joy  and  a  right  to  live, 
And  every  soul  to  truth  alive, 
Willing  to  thrive  and  let  others  thrive, 
Should  rise  with  a  true  and  steady  hand, 
And  mark  these  foes  with  a  villain-brand  ; 
And  shame  them  into  the  ranks  of  toil, 
Or  crush  them  under  their  kindred  soil, 
Away  from  the  laboring  men— 
The  genuine  laboring  men ! 


V. 

Before  the  reading  of  this  rhyme  had  ceased, 

A  crowd  near  by,  that  gradually  increased, 

Had  gathered  round  a  tramp,  old,  bent,  and  gray, 

Who  somehow  through  the  gates  had  made  his  way9 

For  human  pity  rather  than  for  pelf : 

This  clanless  gypsy,  wandering  by  himself. 

No  face  and  brow  more  wrinkles  could  have  worn  ; 

His  clothes  were  most  spectacularly  torn ; 

But  something  in  his  general  effect 

Drew  from  the  throng  a  rough,  unkempt  respect ; 

For  crushed  old  age,  in  heart-enlightened  lands, 

Carries  a  pathos  with  it  that  commands. 

He  had  been  talking  to  the  one  most  near: 

Those  standing  by  were  not  averse  to  hear, 

And  soon  about  him  formed  a  massive  ring; 

His  audience  swelled  like  valley-streams  in  spring. 

Crowds  gather  crowds  by  wondrous  swift  degrees; 

One  comes  to  see  what  'tis  another  sees. 

For  c\iriosity  has  ever  shown 

A  greedy-grasping  avarice  of  its  own, 

And  few  there  are  in  this  world,  high  or  low, 

Who  do  not  like  to  know  what  others  know. 


The  Festival  of  Industry.  127 

He,  with  no  oratorical  display, 

Spoke  to  the  farmers  in  their  own  rough  way, 

And  they  looked  at  him  as  some  prophet  cast 

Out  of  the  Husty  cobwebs  of  the  past, 

With  nineteenth  century  rags  about  him  hung, 

And  current  lack  of  grammar  on  his  tongue. 

He  was  a  prophet ;  for  he  clear  could  see 

The  past — dead  father  of  what  is  to  be  ; 

He  who  what  has  ~been  faithfully  can  tell, 

May  prophesy  the  future  pretty  well. 

With  half  defiant  and  half  modest  air, 

His  sad  eyes  flashing,  and  his  silver  hair 

Tinged  by  the  sun's  last  rays  of  autumn-gold — • 

This  is  the  story  that  the  old  man  told: 

[THE    TRAMP'S    STORY.] 

If  experience  has  gold  in  it  (as  discerning  folks  agree), 

Then  there's  quite  a  little  fortune  stowed  away  somewhere  in  rne, 

And  I  deal  it  out  regardless  of  a  regular  stated  price, 

In  rough-done-up  prize  packages  of  common-sense  advice  ; 

The  people  they  can  take  it,  or  run  round  it,  as  they  please; 

But  the  best  thing  they'll  find  in  it  is  some  words  like  unto  these: 

Worm  or  beetle — drought  or  tempest — on  a  farmer's  land  may  fall  / 
But  for  first-class  ruination,  trust  a  mortgage  'gainst  them  all. 

On  my  Aveddin'-day  my  father  touched  me  kindly  on  the  arm, 

And  handed  me  the  papers  for  an  eighty  acre  farm, 

With  the  stock  an'  tools  an'  buildin's  for  an  independent  start; 

Saying,  "  Here's  a  wedding  present  from  my  muscle  and  my  heart ; 

And,  except  the  admonitions  you  have  taken  from  my  tongue, 

And  the  reasonable  lickin's  that  you  had  when  you  was  young, 

x\nd  your  food  and  clothes  and  schoolin'  (not  so  much  as  I  could  wish, 

For  I  had  a  number  eat  in'  from  a  some'at  scanty  dish), 

And  the  honest  love  you  captured  when  you  first  sat  on  my  knee, 

This  is  all  I  have  to  give  you — so  expect  no  more  from  me." 

People  'd  said  I  couldn't  marry  the  sweet  girl  I  tried  to  court, 
Till  we  smilingly  submitted  a  minority  report ; 


128  Farm  Festivals. 

Then  they  laid  their  theories  over,  with  a  quickness  queer  to  see, 

And  said  they  knew  we'd  marry,  but  we  never  could  agree ; 

But  we  did  not  frame  and  hang  up  all  the  neighbors  had  to  say, 

But  ran  our  little  heaven  in  our  own  peculiar  way ; 

We  started  off  quite  jolly,  wondrous  full  of  health  and  cheer, 

And  a  general  understanding  that  the  road  was  pretty  clear. 

So  we  lived  and  toiled  and  prospered ;  and  the  little  family  party 

That  came  on  from  heaven  to  visit  us  were  bright,  and  hale,  and  hearty; 

And  to-day  we  might  ha'  been  there,  had  I  only  just  have  known 

How  to  lay  my  road  down  solid,  and  let  well  enough  alone. 

But  I  soon  commenced  a-kicking  in  the  traces,  I  confess; 

There  was  too  much  land  that  joined  me  that  I  didn't  yet  possess. 

When  once  he  gets  land-hungry,  strange  how  ravenous  one  can  be!. 

'Twasn't  long  before  I  wanted  all  the  ground  that  I  could  see. 

So  I  bought  another  eighty  (not  foreboding  any  harm), 

And  for  that  and  some  down-money  put  a  mortgage  on  my  farm. 

Then  I  bought  another  forty — hired  some  cash  to  fix  up  new — 

And  to  buy  a  covered  carriage,  and  of  course  the  mortgage  grew. 

Now  my  wife  was   square   against   this,  'tis   but  right  that  you  should 

know 

(Though  I'm  very  far  from  saying  that  I  think  it's  always  so); 
But  she  went  in  hearty  with  me,  working  hard  from  day  to  day, 
For  we  knew  that  life  was  business,  now  we  had  that  debt  to  pay. 

We  worked  through  spring  and  winter — through  summer  and  through 

fall- 
But  that  mortgage  worked  the  hardest  and  the  steadiest  of  us  all ; 
It  worked  on  nights  and  Sundays — it  wrorked  each  holiday — 
It  settled  down  among  us,  and  it  never  went  away. 
Whatever  we  kept  from  it  seemed  a'most  as  bad  as  theft ; 
It  watched  us  every  minute,  and  it  ruled  us  right  and  left. 
The  rust  and  blight  were  with  us  sometimes,  and  sometimes  not; 
The  dark-browed,  scowling  mortgage  was  forever  on  the  spot. 
The  weevil  and  the  cut-worm,  they  went  as  well  as  came ; 
The  mortgage  staid  forever,  eating  hearty  all  the  same. 
It  nailed  up  every  window — stood  guard  at  every  door — 
And  happiness  and  sunshine  made  their  home  with  us  no  more. 


The  Festival  of  Indzistry.  1 3 1 

Till  with  failing  crops  and  sickness  we  got  stalled  upon  the  grade, 
And  there  came  a  dark  day  on  us  when  the  interest  wasn't  paid ; 
And  there  came  a  sharp  foreclosure,  and  I  kind  o'  lost  my  hold, 
And  grew  weary  and  discouraged,  and  the  farm  was  cheaply  sold. 
The  children  left  and  scattered  when  they  hardly  yet  were  grown  ; 
My  wife  she  pined  an'  perished,  an'  I  found  myself  alone. 
What  she  died  of  was  "a  mystery,"  an'  the  doctors  never  knew; 
But  /  knew  she  died  of  mortgage — just  as  well  's  I  wanted  to. 
If  to  trace  a  hidden  sorrow  were  within  the  doctors'  art, 
They'd  ha'  found  a  mortgage  lying  on  that  woman's  broken  heart. 

Two  different  kinds  of  people  the  devil  most  assails : 

One  is  the  man  who  conquers — the  other  he  who  fails. 

But  still  I  think  the  last  kind  are  soonest  to  give  up, 

And  to  hjde  their  sorry  faces  behind  the  shameful  cup ; 

Like  some  old  king  or  other,  whose  name  I've  somehow  lost, 

They  straightway  tear  their  eyes  dut,  just  when  they  need  'em  most. 

When  once  I  had  discovered  that  the  debt  I  could  not  pay, 

I  tried  to  liquidate  it  in  a  rather  common  way  : 

I  used  to  meet  in  private  a  fellow-financier, 

And  we  would  drink  ourselves  worth  ten  thousand  dollars  clear; 

As  easy  a  way  to  prosper  as  ever  has  been  found  ; 

But  one's  a  heap  sight  poorer  when  he  gets  back  to  the  ground. 

Of  course  I  ought  to  ha'  braced  up,  an'  \vorked  on  all  the  same  ; 

I  ain't  a-tryin'  to  shirk  out,  or  cover  up  from  blame ; 

But  still  I  think  men  often,  it  safely  may  be  said, 

Are  driven  to  temptations  in  place  of  being  led  ; 

And  if  that  tyrant  mortgage  hadn't  cracked  its  whip  at  me, 

I  shouldn't  have  constituted  the  ruin  that  you  see. 

For  though  I've  never  stolen  or  defaulted,  please  to  know, 

Yet,  socially  considered,  I  am  pretty  middlin'  low. 

I  am  helpless  an'  forsaken — I  am  childless  an'  alone  ; 

I  haven't  a  single  dollar  that  it's  fair  to  call  my  own  ; 

My  old  age  knows  no  comfort,  my  heart  is  scant  o'  cheer, 

The  children  they  run  from  me  as  soon  as  I  come  near. 

The  women  shrink  and  tremble — their  alms  are  fear-bestowed — 

The  dogs  howl  curses  at  me,  and  hunt  me  down  the  road. 


132  Farm  Festivals. 

My  home  is  where  night  finds  me;  my  friends  are  few  and  cold; 
Oh,  little  is  there  in  this  world  for  one  who's  poor  and  old  ! 
But  I'm  wealthy  in  experience,  all  put  up  in  good  advice, 
To  take  or  not  to  take  it— with  no  difference  in  the  price  ; 
You  may  have  it,  an'  thrive  on  it,  or  run  round  it,  as  you  please, 
But  I  generally  give  it  wrapped  in  some  such  words  as  these: 

Worm  or  beetle — drought  or  tempest — on  a  farmer's  land  may  fall ; 
But  for  first-class  ruination,  trust  a  mortgage  Against  them  all. 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  INJUSTICE; 

OE, 

THE   LAWSUIT. 

THERE  was  a  lawsuit  in  our  town  : 
Two  honest  farmers,  White  and  Brown, 
Who'd  been  near  neighbors  all  their  lives, 
Had  from  the  same  home  lured  their  wives, 
Had  interchanged  celestial  views, 
On  Sundays,  from  adjoining  pews, 
Subjecting  thus,  in  the  same  church, 
Their  neighbors'  sins  to  weekly  search; 
Had  shared  each  golden  Christmas  chime, 

D 

And  "  changed  works "  every  harvest  time ; 

Had  felt  a  partnership,  half  hid, 

In  everything  they  said  and  did  ; 

Had  always,  on  town-meeting  day, 

Talked,  yelled,  and  voted  both  one  way  ; 

Who  each,  whate'er  he  wished  to  do, 

Had  all  the  influence  of  the  two 

(And  two  united,  as  men  run, 

Are  more  than  twice  as  strong  as  one) ; 

Whose  children,  through  youth's  sun  and  shade, 

Had  with  each  other  fought  and  played — 

These  men  fell  out,  one  raw  March  day, 

In  something  like  the  following  way : 

White  had  a  sheep  he  boasted  o'er: 
Value  two  dollars — maybe  more. 
Brown  did  a  brindle  dog  possess; 
Value,  two  cents,  or  maybe  less. 


^A  Farm  Festivals. 

The  sheep,  one  night,  was  killed  by  stealth ; 
The  dog  retained  his  usual  health. 
White  felt  the  separation-shock 
As  if  the  sheep  had  been  a  flock ; 
And  reaped  a  crop  of  mental  blues 
(We  always  value  what  we  lose). 
Brown's  heart  the  theory  could  not  hear, 
Which  White  propounded  to  his  ear, 
That  his  dog's  life  should  make  amends 
(No  cur  so  mean  but  has  his  friends). 
White  vowed,  in  words  profanely  deep, 
That  Brown's  canine  had  killed  his  sheep 
(Which  accusation  was  o'er-true ; 
The  dog  himself  well  knew  it,  too). 
Brown,  unconvinced  and  anger-eyed, 
Insisted  that  his  neighbor  lied. 
White  skirmished  round,  by  day  and  night. 
In  hopes  to  shoot  the  dog  at  sight ; 
Brown  kenneled  him  beneath  his  bed, 
And  sent  bad  language  out  instead. 
Suit  for  the  sheep  was  brought  by  White; 
Brown  fought  him  back  with  all  his  might. 
Thus  are  the  reasons  jotted  down, 
Why  we'd  a  lawsuit  in  our  town. 

White's  lawyer  was,  when  fairly  weighed, 
The  meanest  of  that  tempted  trade ; 
With  all  the  vices  of  his  clan, 
And  not  a  virtue  known  to  man. 
In  almost  every  calling,  he 
Had  shown  how  little,  men  can  be ; 
Had  demonstrated,  teaching  schools, 
That  small  men  can  be  monstrous  fools, 
And  by  strong  pupils,  once  or  more, 
Was  taught  the  object  of  the  door; 
Had  preached  awhile,  at  his  own  call, 
With  hearers  few,  or  none  at  all 
(For  souls  to  cling  are  seldom  prone 
Round  men  who  have  none  of  their  own); 


a 

w    .> 
o    ~ 


o   ~i 

*•      54 
'X 


b   « 


The  Festival  of  Injustice. 

At  fanning  once  had  tried  his  hand, 
But  laziness  grows  poor  on  land. 
He  had,  for  half  a  month  or  more, 
Been  salesman  in  a  country  store, 
Where,  though  his  talents  he  ne'er  hid, 
Some  of  the  cash  somebody  did ; 
And  he,  before  his  sphere  enlarged, 
By  his  employer  was  discharged. 
Then  his  frouzed  head  and  lantern-jaw 
Had  fin'lly  drifted  toward  the  law 
(Not  to  it — candor  must  admit — 
But  only  just  in  sight  of  it); 
And  so  he  took  a  dead-head  trip, 
On  pettifoggery's  pirate  ship, 
Coming  at  last,  it  may  be  said, 
To  be  its  brazen  figure  head. 
This  wolf  became,  at  one  fell  leap, 
Attorney  for  White's  missing  sheep. 
Brown's  lawyer  equal  praise  would  bear; 
Ah  me  !  they  were  a  pretty  pair ! 

Such  villains  cast  no  shade  of  blame 

On  any  honest  lawyer's  name; 

There  are  those  do  not  hew  their  life 

Into  the  kindling-wood  of  strife, 

To  fire  men's  hearts  and  homes  in  turn, 

That  they  may  rob  them  as  they  burn  ; 

Who  only  take  such  causes  as 

The  eternal  Eight  already  has; 

Who,  when  a  client  comes  along 

Upon  the  fragile  stilts  of  wrong, 

And  strives  to  make  law  help  him  bear 

His  weight  through  Error's  putrid  air, 

Show  him  the  sin  on  which  he's  bent, 

Induce  him,  maybe,  to  repent, 

And  send  him  home,  with  altered  plan, 

A  wiser  and  not  poorer  man. 

Such,  with  strong  heart,  and  head,  and  hand, 

Are  benefactors  to  the  land ; 


Farm  Festivals. 

It  is  not  to  the  craft's  disgrace 

That  there  were  none  such  in  this  case. 

Scarce  did  the  rage-envenomed  din 

Have  leisure  fairly  to  begin, 

Through  the  thick  crowd  an  old  man  strode, 

Making  himself  a  ragged  road ; 

With  gestures  lower  than  his  looks, 

Upset  a  pile  of  huge  law-books, 

Inked  a  half-quire  of  legal  cap, 

Also  Brown's  lawyer's  left-hand  lap ; 

Ignoring,  with  a  scorn  profound, 

The  jndge  and  jury  clustering  round, 

He  climbed  his  greatest  tiptoe-height, 

And  made  this  speech  to  Brown  and  White  : 

So  you're  at  it,  sure  enough— 

Side-hold,  square-hold,  kick  and  cuff- 
Any  way  to  down  each  other,  if  it's  only  brought  about ; 

With  two  rogues  in  your  employ, 

For  to  hollo  out  "  S't  boy  !" 
An'  to  superintend  your  pockets,  an'  pick  up  what  rattles  out. 

An'  your  folks,  too,  it  appears, 

Have  been  gettin'  by  the  ears, 
All  prepared  to  hate  each  other,  for  forever  an'  a  day  ; 

The  devil  gives  a  shout 

When  a  family  falls  out ; 
But  what  is  that  to  you  'uns,  if  you  only  have  your  way? 

An'  your  friends  an'  neighbors,  too, 

Have  been  wranglin'  over  you  ; 
Your  example  has  been  followed,  as  to  brother  fightin'  brother; 

There  is  more  bad  blood  round  here 

Than  '11  drain  off  in  a  year; 
But  what  is  that  to  you  'uns,  if  you  only  bleed  each  other? 

Can  our  church  such  things  endure  ? 
You're  agoin'  to  bu'st  it,  sure ! 


The  Festival  of  Injustice.  \  39 

An'  the  hosts  of  sin  are  ready  to  begin  their  triumph-revel ; 

But  what  would  you  'uns  give 

To  save  all  the  souls  that  live, 
So  you  just  can  clinch  together,  an'  go  rolling  toward  the  devil? 

And  the  Lord  that  o'er  us  reigns : 

o 

He  has  taken  extra  pains 
For  to  put  you  two  in  harness,  so's  to  pull  together  square ; 

'Stead  o'  which  you  kick  an'  bite, 

With  a  regular  ten-mule  spite ; 
Do  you  think  that,  strictly  speaking,  you're  a-treatin'  on  Him  fair? 

O  yon  law-bamboozled  fools  ! 

You  old  self-ground  devil's-tools  ! 
Do  you  know  you're  sowin'  ruin  out  o'  hell's  half-acre  lot  ? 

Do  you  know  when  smart  men  light 

They  Calamity  invite, 
Who  comes  round  an'  stays  forever,  till  he  eats  up  all  they've  got  ? 

O  you  poor  cat's-paws  of  spite! 

Ain't  there  'nough  things  for  to  fight — 
Ain't  there  rust  an'  blight  an'  tempest — ain't  there  misery  sore  an'  deep— 

Ain't  there  ignorance  an'  wrong, 

An'  what  woes  to  them  belong, 
I>ut  that  you  must  fight  each  other  'bout  a  brindle  dog  and  sheep? 

Why,  man  is  just  one  race, 

In  a  very  ticklish  place, 
With  a  thousand  forces  fightin'  for  to  lay  him  on  the  shelf; 

Don't  it  strike  you,  foolish  men, 

As  a  losin'  business,  then, 
When  he  tears  down  his  defenses,  an'  goes  fightin'  of  himself  ? 

An'  these  lawyers  round  here  gawkin'- 

Who  has  tried  to  stop  my  talkin'- 
If  they  come  it  once  too  often,  I — I  vow  I'll  smash  'em  both  ; 

What  d'ye  s'pose  they  care  for  you, 

Or  for  what  they  say  or  do? 
For  they  don't  pay  no  expenses,  an'  they  ain't  put  under  oath. 


j  ,o  Farm  Festivals. 

Shake  han's  now,  an'  be  friends, 

An'  say,  Here  the  matter  ends, 
An'  divide  the  costs  between  you — what  has  so  far  been  incurred ; 

It'll  make  this  world  less  sad— 

It'll  make  all  heaven  glad! 
"Peace  on  earth,"  is  just  as  good  news  as  the  angels  ever  heard. 


Here  the  judge  spoke,  with  angry  air : 
"We  have  no  jurisdiction  there; 
It's  more  than  all  our  work  is  worth, 
To  keep  things  steady  here  on  earth ; 
We  can't  pretend,  best  we  can  do, 
To  litigate  for  angels  too. 
I  hereby  line  you,  for  this  sport, 
Ten  dollars,  for  contempt  of  court, 
And  you  will  in  the  jail  be  laid, 
Until  the  little  sum  is  paid. 
Kemove  this  person  from  the  place, 
And  let  us  go  on  with  the  case." 

With  look  most  cheerful  and  polite, 

The  old  man  turned  to  Brown  and  White, 

Saying,  "  For  your  good  I  made  this  speech 

Pray  lend  me  now,  five  dollars  each. 

I've  been  a-throwin'  you  advice 

You  couldn't  ha'  bought  at  any  price. 

If  you  will  give  my  words  an  ear, 

They're  worth  ten  thousan'  dollars  clear." 

His  eloquence  had  no  avail; 
They  took  the  old  man  off  to  jail. 
The  suit  went  on — please  don't  forget— 
And,  I  believe,  isn't  finished  yet. 


THE    FESTIVAL   OF   DIS-KEASON; 

OR, 

THE   DEBATE. 

THEY    came    in    sleighs    and    cutters    down    the    snow -paved    country 

road— 

No  farm-house  in  the  district  but  sent  something  of  "  a  load," 
No  home  so  high  or  humble,  but  threw  in  its  mental  mite 
Toward  an  equitable  judgment  on  the  issue  of  the  night ; 
For  the  question  to  be  settled  was  an  elemental  one : 
Namely,  whether  fire  or  water  had  the  greater  damage  done. 

O  Peace  !  thy  famous  mantle  is  a  lovely  thing  to  view, 

But  what  unimportant  matters  can  suffice  to  tear  it  through  ! 

Now  a  three-month  had  this  "district"  been  by  thee  as  much  inspired, 

As  a  first-class  summer  evening,  when  the  sun  has  just  retired; 

Till  some  indiscreet  debater  fired  the  battle's  signal  gun, 

Asking  whether  fire  or  water  had  the  greater  damage  done. 

As  when  the  housewife,  whisking  through  her  culinary  toil, 
Bathes  the  inside  of  a  kettle,  it  will  foam  and  seethe  and  boil, 
As  when  a  brawny  blacksmith,  his  hot  iron  all  agleam, 
Stabs  the  unsuspecting  water,  it  will  hiss  and  yell  and  scream, 
So  the  most  pronounced  convulsions  it  had  ever  known  as  yet, 
Made  life  lively  in  this  neighborhood  when  fire  and  water  met. 

Not  when  the  choir,  one  Sunday,  chirped  a  secular-sounding  song; 
Not  when  the  pastor  married  diametrically  wrong; 
Not  when  the  new  school-master,  with  a  sweet  and  cheerful  smile, 
Flogged  three  champion  school-house  bullies  in  improved  athletic  style; 


142  Farm  Festivals. 

Had  there  been  so  fierce  excitement. — Naught  more  bitter  words  can 

make, 
Than  discussion  where  the  parties  haven't  any  thing  at  stake. 

O  War !  thy  grim  material  pauses  not  at  guns  and  swords : 

There  are  campaigns  of  opinion — there  are  carnages  of  words! 

Now  that  neighborhood,  so  peaceful  till  this  unexpected  day, 

Formed  itself,  as  if  by  magic,  in  belligerent  array, 

Full  of  empty  emulation,  and  disinterested  ire; 

About  half  denouncing  water — the  remainder  fighting  fire. 

There  were  deadly  feuds  engendered,  in  that  clash  of  word  and  will. 
That  have  crept  through  generations,  and  are  living  even  still ; 
There  were  families  imbittered — sacred  friendships  rent  in  twain— 
In  that  well-nigh  useless  contest  of  the  heart  and  of  the  brain. 
For  the  fight  on  this  occasion  had  grown  bitter  and  intense, 
In  proportion  as  the  issue  was  of  little  consequence. 

Old  Squire  Taylor  took  his  children  out  of  school,  without  delay, 
When  the  teacher  taught  Volcanoes  in  an  underhanded  way  ; 
Deacon  Stebbins,  it  was  whispered,  gave  his  son  a  whipping  rare, 
Just  for  drawing  on  the  Deluge  in  his  verse  at  morning  prayer; 
And  the  good  but  shrewd  old  preacher — half  in  love  and  half  in  fear — 
Scarcely  mentioned  fire  or  water  in  his  sermons  for  a  year. 

There  were  fisticuffs  and  lawsuits  bred  among  the  brawny  men — 

Women  who  ne'er  borrowed  sugar  at  each  other's  house  again  ; 

And   the  children  called  their  playmates,  when   they  fell   out,  in   their 

games, 

"Water-fowl,"  and  "Papa's  fire-bug,"  and  such-like  endearing  names; 
While  a  keen  demand  existed  'mongst  the  people,  great  and  small, 
For  the  evening  when  this  question  should  be  settled  once  for  all. 

They  came  in  sleds  and  cutters  down  the  snow-paved  country  roads  ; 
They  swarmed  like  bees  in  anger,  from  the  depths  of  their  abodes ; 
They  urged  their  bell-fringed  coursers;  they  hurried,  with  one  will, 
To  the  little  old  red  school-house  at  the  summit  of  the  hill. 
For  'twas  there  that  the  discussion  was  appointed  to  take  place, 
And  the  fiercest  of  debaters  meet  each  other  face  to  face. 


"  NO    PRESTIGE    WAS    RESPECTED,    IN    THE    STORM    OF    RAGE    THAT    ROSE." 


The  Festival  of  Dis-reason.  145 

O  little  old  red  school-bouse  !  your  prosperous  days  are  flown  ! 
You  are  a  sad  old  school-house,  decrepit  and  alone. 
Within  your  grimly  ruins,  now  half  crumbled  to  the  ground, 
The  wind  repeats  its  lessons,  in  a  listless,  droning  sound  ; 
The  snow-flakes  leap  your  windows,  and  cluster  on  your  floor, 
Or,  like  belated  youngsters,  creep  slyly  through  the  door ; 

Xo  more  incipient  maidens  softly  to  your  portals  come, 
With  pantalettes  of  nankeen,  and  surreptitious  gum  ; 
Xo  more  the  idle  urchin,  wrapped  in  secret  hardihood, 
Daily  strives  to  make  you  useful  in  the  line  of  kindling-wood ; 
Xo  more  the  youthful  chalk-fiend  traces  incoherent  scrawls, 
And  startling  hieroglyphics,  on  your  dim  and  dingy  walls ; 

Your  painted  rival  perches  on  the  yonder  neighboring  hill ; 

The  restless  feet  that  sought  you  are  lying  very  still. 

The  flowers  of  many  summers  upon  their  graves  have  grown  ; 

You  are  a  sad  old  school-house,  decrepit  and  alone. 

But  you  have  had  your  triumphs;  and,  if  accounts  be  right, 

You  were  not  over-lonely  on  that  famous  winter  night ! 

Oh,  what  a  crowd  had  gathered,  and  how  wide  awake  they  were. 

To  see  this  mighty  struggle  of  the  elements  occur ! 

The  buds  and  blooms  of  beauty  of  that  region  had  turned  out, 

Also  all  the  brain  and  muscle  of  the  country  round  about ; 

For,  as  some  one  gravely  mentioned — 'twas  an  interesting  time — 

A  trial  whose  attorneys  gloried  in  their  clients'  crime. 

There  was  Corporal  Joseph  Bellamy,  a  veteran  fierce  and  gray, 
Whose  left  leg  took  a  furlough  on  the  field  of  Monterey, 
And  who  whispered,  "  How'd  the  Waterites  get  away,  he'd  like  to  know. 
With  the  fire  that  burned  the  powder  in  our  Avar  with  Mexico?" 
There  was  Captain  Abel  Stockwell,  who  the  raging  main  had  ploughed. 
And  had  some  old  claim  of  wreckage  which  he  wished  to  get  allowed : 

There  was  Andrew  Clark,  a  bully,  who  remarked,  he  couldn't  debate. 
But  could  lick  the  biggest  wateriir-trough  that  spouted  in  the  State; 
There  was  pretty  Jessie  Miller,  with  her  blushing  face  half  hid, 
Who  didn't  say  much  on  the  question — just  because  her  lover  did; 

11 


146  Farm  Festivals. 

There  was  "  Uncle  Sammy,"  smiling  gay  and  happy — nothing  loth 
To  dispute  with  either  faction,  or,  if  necessary,  both ; 

There  was  dear  old  Sister  Dibble,  amiable  and  pleasant-eyed, 
Who  agreed  with  all  she  talked  to,  and  no  matter  on  which  side ; 
There  was  Uncle  James  K.  Hopkins,  who  espoused  one  cause  to-day, 
And  to-morrow  morning  early,  always  thought  the  other  way; 
There  was  Township  Treasurer  Hawley,  who  a  theory  could  frame, 
That  The  Law  of  Compensation  made  them  both  destroy  the  same ; 

There  was  Road  Commissioner  Reynolds,  who,  as  president,  would  state 
The  true  meaning  of  the  question  they  had  come  there  to  debate  ; 
But  was  checked  by  Uncle  Sammy,  with  his  back  firm  'gainst  the  wall, 
Who  declared,  as  if  astonished,  that  that  wasn't  it  at  all ! 
So  an  hour  they  wrangled,  trying  to  discover,  beyond  doubt, 
What  it  was  that  all  the  people  had  been  quarreling  about. 

As  well  might  be  imagined,  'twas  a  trifle  ludicrous 

To  hear  this  crowd  discussing  as  to  what  they  should  discuss; 

Until  the  conversation  reached  the  pure  assertive  stage, 

The  pattering  of  word-drops  turned  to  thunder-peals  of  rage, 

And  young  Napoleon  Peaslee,  with  his  black  eyes  opened  wide, 

Shook  his  fist  at  several  others,  and  informed  them  that  they  lied. 

When  this  argument  was  stated  ('tis  a  not  uncommon  one), 
Andrew  Clark  bobbed  up  his  body,  like  the  rammer  of  a  gun 
When  the  load  at  last  is  driven,  and  remarked,  with  aspect  hot, 
That  into  his  department  the  discussion  now  had  got ; 
Then,  striding  o'er  three  benches,  to  the  speaker  he  drew  nigh, 
And  advanced  a  heavy  argument  at  Napoleon's  nearest  eye. 

As  when  the  thrifty  farmer  his  cold  yard  with  fodder  strews, 
Two  sturdy  youthful  bullocks  will  develop  different  views, 
And  join  belligerent  issue — then  their  rage  infects  the  herd, 
Till  the  peacefulest  old  mulley  feels  her  blood  with  battle  stirred, 
So  this  meeting  joined  in  conflict;  and  affairs  assumed  a  shape 
As  if  sin's  unpleasant  future  had  effected  an  escape. 

No  prestige  was  respected,  in  the  storm  of  rage  that  rose ; 
The  deacon  shook  ten  knuckles  underneath  the  elder's  nose  ; 


The  Festival  of  Dis-reason.  147 

The  squire  upset  the  sheriff,  with  undignified  display, 

When  the  latter  "  Peace "  demanded,  in  a  very  warlike  way ; 

And  even  Sister  Dibble  her  fat  fist  to  shake  began, 

And  vowed  to  goodness  gracious  that  she  wished  she  was  a  man  ! 

E'en  the  stove — a  shattered  veteran,  which  for  many  years  had  stood 

On  two  legs,  and  two  frail  crutches  made  of  bricks  and  blocks  of  wood, 

And,  like  some  worthy  people  who  are  nothing  if  not  plumb, 

Had  no  single  earthly  merit  save  its  equilibrium, 

Lost  even  that ;  and,  falling  'mid  this  clash  of  frantic  souls, 

Smashed,  and  emptied  out  a  bushel  of  the  liveliest  kind  of  coals. 

As  when  the  juvenile  shepherd  scares  his  flock  of  timid  sheep 
Through  the  narrows  of  a  fence-gap,  they  will  rush  and  plunge   and 

leap, 

So  the  bravest,  and  the  strongest,  and  the  fiercest  that  were  there, 
Loitered  not  upon  their  journey  to  the  free  and  open  air; 
Which,  flying  from  their  presence,  rushed  into  the  open  door, 
And  scattered  coals  and  fire-brands  all  about  the  school-house  floor. 

"  It's  a-burnin'  up  the  buildin' !"  was  the  universal  shout : 
"We'll  be  taxed  to  build  another,  if  we  do  not  put  it  out!" 
The  debaters,  each  forgetting  his  rhetoric  ends  and  aims, 
Rushed  in  with  snow  and  water,  to  subdue  the  rising  flames; 
And  'twas  even  hard  to  tell  there,  when  the  victory  was  won, 
Whether  fire  or  whether  water  had  the  greater  damage  done. 

They  drove  their  sleighs  and  cutters  homeward  o'er  the  snowy  road ; 
Their  clothes  were  wet  and  freezing — their  hearts  with  anger  glowed ; 
E'en  those  agreeing  differed ;  cutting  up  the  question,  they 
Disagreed  on  its  divisions,  and  disputed  by  the  way. 
And  only  one  was  happy  who  to  this  affair  had  come ; 
And  he  was  under-witted,  and  was  also  deaf  and  dumb. 

O  thinkers  and  debaters !  be  moderate  and  more  slow ; 

You  can't  make  true  opinions — they  have  to  seed  and  grow. 

Be  generous  in  your  conflicts;  look  very  sharp  to  see 

What  points  you  can  discover  whereon  you  may  agree ; 

Remember,  mere  assertion  to  mere  brutishness  conies  nigh, 

And  the  shallowest  of  arguments  is  the  poisoned  words,  "  You  lie !" 


THE    FESTIVAL    OF    REUNION; 

OR, 

THE   GOLDEN   WEDDING. 

WAKE  up,  wife ! — the  black  cloak  of  Night  begins  to  fade, 
And  far  in  the  east  The  Morning  his  kitchen  fire  has  made; 
And  he  is  heating  red-hot  his  stove  of  iron-gray, 
And  stars  are  winking  and  blinking  before  the  light  o'  day. 

Mind  you  what  I  was  doin',  just  fifty  years  agone  ? — 

Brushing  my  Sunday  raiment  an'  puttin'  my  best  looks  on ; 

Clothin'  myself  in  courage,  so  none  my  fright  would  see  ; 

An'  my  coward  heart  within,  the  while,  was  pounding  to  get  free  ! 

Ten  mile  wood  an'  bramble,  and  three  mile  field  an'  dew, 
In  the  cold  smile  of  morning,  I  walked,  to  marry  you ; 
No  horse  had  I  but  my  wishes — no  pilot  but  a  star ; 
But  my  boyish  heart  it  fancied  it  heard  you  from  afar ! 

So  through  the  woods  I  hurried,  an'  through  the  grass  an'  dew, 
An'  little  I  thought  o'  tiring,  the  whole  of  my  journey  through  ; 
Things  ne'er  before  nor  after  do  so  a  man  rejoice, 
As  on  the  day  he  marries  the  woman  of  his  choice  ! 

And  then  our  country  wedding — brimful  o'  grief  an'  glee, 
With  every  one  a-pettin'  an'  jokin'  you  an'  me ; 
The  good  cheer  went  and  came,  wife,  as  it  sometimes  has  done 
When  clouds  have  chased  each  other  across  the  Summer  sun. 

There  was  your  good  old  father,  dressed  up  in  weddin'  shape, 
With  all  the  homespun  finery  that  he  could  rake  an'  scrape; 


The  Festival  of  Reunion.  1 5 1 

And  your  dear-hearted  mother,  the  sunlight  of  whose  smile 
Shone   through  the   showers   of  tear- drops   that   stormed  her  face  the 
while  ; 

Also  your  sisters  an'  brothers,  who  hardly  seemed  to  know 
How  they  could  scare  np  courage  to  let  their  sister  go ; 
An'  cousins  an'  school-house  comrades,  dressed  up  in  meetin'  trim, 
With  one  of  them  a-sulkin'  because  it  wasn't  him  ; 

An'  there  was  the  good  old  parson,  his  neck  all  dressed  in  white, 
A  bunch  o'  texts  in  his  left  eye,  a  hymn-book  in  his  right ; 
And  the  parson's  virgin  daughter,  plain  an'  severely  pure, 
Who  hoped  we  should  be  happy,  but  wasn't  exactly  sure ; 

And  there  was  the  victuals,  seasoned  with  kind  regards  an'  love, 
And  holly-wreaths  with  breastpins  of  rubies,  up  above; 
An'  there  was  my  heart  a-wonderin'  as  how  such  things  could  be, 
And  there  was  the  world  before  us,  and  there  was  you  and  me. 

Wake  up,  wife !  that  gold  bird,  the  Sun,  has  come  in  sight, 
And  on  a  tree-top  perches  to  take  his  daily  flight ! 
He  is  not  old  and  feeble ;  an'  he  will  sail  away, 
As  he  has  done  so  often  since  fifty  years  to-day. 

You  know  there's  company  coming — our  daughters  an'  our  sons: 
There's  John,  and  James,  and  Lucy,  an'  all  their  little  ones  ; 
And  Jennie,  she  will  be  here,  who  in  her  grave  doth  lie 
(Provided  company  ever  can  come  from  out  the  sky) ; 

And  Sam — I  am  not  certain  as  he  will  come,  or  not ; 
They  say  he  is  a  black  sheep — the  wildest  of  the  lot. 
Before  a  son's  dishonor,  a  father's  love  stands  dumb ; 
But  still,  somehow  or  other,  I  hope  that  Sam  will  come ! 

The  tree  bends  down  its  branches  to  its  children  from  above — 

The  son  is  lord  of  the  father,  and  rules  him  with  his  love  ; 

And  he  will  e'er  be  longed  for,  though  far  they  be  apart, 

For  the  drop  of  blood  he  carries,  that  came  from  the  father's  heart. 


152  Farm  Festivals. 

Wake  you,  wife !    the  loud  sun  has  roused  the  sweet  Daylight, 
And  she  has  dressed  herself  np  in  red  and  yellow  and  white ; 
She  has  dressed  herself  for  us,  wife — for  our  weddin'-day  once  inore- 
And  my  soul  to-day  is  younger  than  ever  it  was  before  ! 


THE    FESTIVAL    OF    MEMORY; 

OR, 

CONVERSE  WITH  THE  SLAIN. 

[Read  at  the  National  Cemetery  on  the  Cnstis  Farm,  Arlington  Heights, Va.,  Decoration  Day,  18TT.] 

HERE  where  the  Nation's  domes  salute  our  eye, 
And  lift  their  fingers  up  to  freedom's  sky, 
Here  where,  by  green-flagged  hill  and  flowery  glade. 
Camps  evermore  the  Nation's  dead  brigade, 
And,  though  our  stars  upon  the  day  are  tossed, 
White,  gleaming  head-stones  tell  of  what  they  cost, 
And  Triumph's  guns  are  decked  with  Sorrow's  strain, 
Let  us  hold  converse  with  the  Nation's  slain. 


I. 

Strong  men  fast  asleep, 

With  coverlets  wrought  of  clay, 
Do  soft  dreams  o'er  you  creep, 

Of  friends  who  are  here  to-day? 
Do  you  know,  O  men  low  lying 

In  the  hard  and  chilly  bed, 
That  we,  the  slowly  dying, 

Are  giving  a  day  to  the  dead  ? 
Do  you  know  that  sighs  for  your  deaths 

Across  our  heart-strings  play, 
E'en  from  the  last  faint  breaths 

Of  the  sweet-lipped  mouth  of  May  ? 
When  you  fell,  at  Duty's  call, 

Your  fame  it  glittered  high, 


1 54  The  Festival  of  Memory. 

As  leaves  of  the  sombre  Fall 

Grow  brighter  though  they  die. 

Men  of  the  silent  bands, 

Men  of  the  half-told  days, 

Lift  up  your  spectre  hands, 
And  take  our  heart-bonqnets. 

[RESPONSE.] 

Our  heads  droop  on  the  world's  broad  breast ; 
Our  work  is  done,  and  we  have  gone  to  rest. 
These  footsteps,  lingering  round  our  bed, 
The  sun  that  shines,  the  storm  that  sweeps  overhead. 
The  summer  hour,  when  naught  sounds  nigh 
Save  the  low,  drowsy  humming  of  the  fly, 
Or  the  wind's  moan  when  day  is  done, 
All  feed  our  sleep,  and  all  to  us  are  one. 

When  morning  sows  the  sky  with  gold, 

To  blossom  forth  at  noon  a  million-fold, 

When,  shaded  from  the  setting  sun, 

The  weary  father  clasps  his  little  one, 

While  she  whose  chastened  love  ne'er  dies 

Leans  on  them  with  her  patient  mother-eyes, 

When  the  brown  frame  of  even-time 

Is  pictured  deep  with  song  and  laughter's  chime ; 

Of  all  these  sweet  and  pure  and  blest, 

Not  one  avails  to  call  us  from  our  rest. 

Fought  we  for  wealth?     We  own,  to-day, 

Death's  tattered  robes,  and  six  good  feet  of  clay. 

For  noisy  Fame's  bright  coronets? 

The  world  applauds  us,  but  it  soon  forgets. 

And  yet,  on  royal  robes  we  fall : 

We  fought  for  Love — and  Love  is  king  of  all. 


II. 

Women,  whose  rich  graves  deck 
The  work  of  Strife's  red  spade, 


•LET    US    HOLD    CONVERSE    WITH    THE    NATION'S    SLAIN." 


Farm  Festivals.  157 

Shining  wrecks  of  the  wreck 

This  tempest  of  war  lias  made, 
You  whose  sweet  pure  love 

Round  every  suffering  twined, 
Whose  hearts,  like  the  sky  above, 

Bent  o'er  all  human  kind, 
Who  walked  through  hospital  streets, 

'Twixt  white  abodes  of  pain, 
Counting  the  last  heart-beats 

Of  men  who  were  slowly  slain ; 
Whose  thrilling  voices  ever 

Such  words  of  comfort  bore, 
That  many  a  poor  boy  never 

Such  music  had  heard  before ; 
Whose  deeds  were  so  sweet  and  gracious, 

Wherever  your  light  feet  trod, 
That  every  step  seemed  precious, 

As  if  it  were  that  of  God  ; 
Whose  eyes  so  divinely  beamed, 

Whose  touch  was  so  tender  and  true, 
That  the  dying  soldier  dreamed 
Of  the  purest  love  he  knew; 
O  martyrs  of  more  than  duty ! 

Sweet-hearted  woman-braves ! 
Did  yon  think,  in  this  day's  sad  beauty, 

That  we  could  forget  your  graves  ? 
Could  you  think,  of  these  yearning  hours, 

None  from  your  memory  grew? 
That  we  brought  a  garden  of  flowers, 

And  never  a  blossom  for  you  ? 
Great  is  the  brave  commander, 

With  foemen  round  him  slain, 
But  greater  far,  and  grander, 

Is  she  who  can  soothe  a  pain. 
Not  till  selfish  blindness 

Has  clouded   every  eye, 
Not  till  mercy  and  kindness 
Have  flown  back  to  the  sky, 


158  The  Festival  of  Memory. 

Not  till  a  heart  that  is  human 

Within  this  world  beats  not, 
Shall  the  kind  deeds  of  a  woman 

Be  ever  by  man  forgot. 
Heaven's  best  evangels, 

Artists  of  mercy's  arts, 
Earth-types  of  the  angels, 

Take  these  flowers  from  our  hearts. 

[RESPONSE.] 

Sound  and  deep  our  bodies  sleep 
'Neath  a  bright  green  covering, 

Slender  shades  of  tender  blades 
Over  us  are  hovering. 

Fragrant  sheaves  of  floweret  leaves 
Sweetest  odors  fling;  to  us, 

o  J 

Merry  birds  with  music-words 
Perch  aloft  and  sing  to  us. 

Butterflies,  with  wings  of  eyes, 
Flash  a  kindly  cheer  to  us, 
Stalks  of  clover,  like  a  lover, 

Bend  and  whisper  near  to  us. 

i 

And  we  bless,  with  thankfulness, 
All  the  flowers  you  give  to  us, 

And  we  greet,  with  feelings  meet, 
All  the  hours  you  live  to  us ; 

But  while  we,  'neath  hill  and  lea, 
Floral  favors  owe  to  you, 

We  above,  with  smiles  of  love, 

Blooms  of  blessings  throw  to  you. 

Once  we  stood,  in  doubtful  mood, 
On  a  hill-top,  listening — 

Gazing  where,  supremely  fair, 

Heaven's  domes  were  glistening : 


Farm  Festivals.  159 

Widowed  wives,  whose  own  good  lives 

Their  great  grief  had  cost  to  them  ; 
Mothers  who  till  death  were  true, 

Maids  whose  loves  were  lost  to  them  ; 

They  who  strove,  with  deeds  of  love, 

To  keep  back  the  dying  ones, 
Until  they  were  drawn,  one  day,  . 

'Mongst  the  heavenward  flying  ones ; 

So  we  stood,  in  doubtful  mood, 

On  a  hill-top,  listening, 
Gazing  where,  supremely  fair, 
Heaven's  domes  were  glistening ; 

Wondering  why  there  came  not  nigh 

Some  who  all  had  dared  for  us, 
Sad  together  wondering  whether 

Our  sweet  dead  yet  cared  for  us! 

At  a  sound  we  turned  around  : 
They  had  stolen  near  to  us, 
They  whom  we  had  yearned  to  see — 

They  who  were  so  dear  to  us ; 

% 

So,  while  you  these  heroes  true 

Praise,  and  with  flowers  cover  them, 

We  above  throw  looks  of  love, 
And  caresses,  over  them. 


III. 

Men  who  fell  at  a  loss, 

Who  died  'neath  failure's  frown, 
Who  carried  Strife's  red  cross, 

And  gained  not  Victory's  crown, 
Whose  wrong  fight  was  so  brave 

That  it  won  our  sad  applause, 


1 60  The  Festival  of  Memory. 

Who  sleep  in  a  hero's  grave, 

Though  clutched  by  the  corpse  of  a  cause : 
Sleep  sweet !  with  no  misgiving, 

By  bitter  memories  fed, 
That  we,  your  foes  when  living, 

Can  be  your  foes  when  dead. 
Your  fault  shall  not  e'en  be  spoken ; 

You  paid  for  it  on  the  pall ; 
The  shroud  is  Forgiveness'  token, 

'And  Death  makes  saints  of  all. 
Your  land  has  in  its  keeping 

Our  brothers,  doomed  to  die  : 
Their  souls  went  upward,  sweeping 

Through  storms  of  a  southern  sky : 
The  dead  sons  of  our  mothers 

Reach  for  your  hands  of  clay ; 
So  we,  with  your  living  brothers, 

Would  clasp  glad  hands  to-day ; 
That  this  young  Queen  of  Nations, 

As  famous  as  the  sun, 
Which  has  lived  through  tribulations 

A  hundred  years  and  one, 
Shall  wrap  the  centuries. round  her 

Again  and  yet  again, 
Till  their  gleaming  braids  have  wound  her 

In  a  thousand  years  and  ten  ! 

[  RESPONSE.  ] 

From  our  dead  foemen  comes  no  chiding  forth  ; 
We  lie  at  peace ;  Heaven  has  no  South  or  North. 
With  roots  of  tree  and  flower  and  fern  and  heather, 
God  reaches  clown,  and  clasps  our  hands  together. 


IV. 

Men  of  the  dark-hued  race. 

Whose  freedom  meant — to  die — 

Who  lie,  with  pain-wrought  face 
Upturned  to  the  peaceful  sky, 


Farm  Festivals.  161 

Whose  day  of  jubilee, 

So  many  years  o'erdue, 
Came — but  only  to  be 

A  day  of  death  to  you  ; 
The  flowers  of  whose  love  grew  bright, 

E'en  in  Oppression's  track, 
The  mills  of  whose  hearts  ran  right. 

o 

Though  under  a  roof  of  black ; 
Crushed  of  a  martyred  race, 

Jet-jewelry  of  your  clan, 
You  showed  with  what  good  grace 

A  man  may  die  for  man. 
To  cringe  and  toil  and  bleed, 

Your  sires  and  you  were  born  ; 
You  grew  in  the  ground  of  greed, 

You  throve  in  the  frost  of  scorn ! 
But  now,  as  your  fireless  ashes 

Feed  Liberty's  fruitful  tree, 
The  black  race  proudly  flashes 

The  star-words  "We  are  free!" 
Men  who  died  in  sight 

Of  the  long-sought  promise-land, 
Would  that  these  flowers  were  bright 

As  your  deeds  are  true  and  grand ! 


[  RESPONSE.  ] 

Oh!   we  had  hearts,  as  brave  and  true 
As  those  that  lighter  covering  knew; 

O  O 

Love's  flowers  bloomed  in  us,  pure  and  bright, 
As  if  the  vases  were  of  white ! 

And  we  had  homes,  as  sweet  and  rare 
As  if  our  household  gods  were  fair; 
But  Death's  was  not  the  only  dart 
That  came  to  force  our  joys  apart ! 

And  we  had  souls,  that  saw  the  sky, 
And  heard  the  angels  singing  nigh ; 
12 


!  6  2  The  Festival  of  Memory. 

But  oft  in  gloom  those  souls  would  set, 
As  if  God  bad  not  found  them  yet ! 

Columbia  brought  us  from  afar — 
She  chained  us  to  her  triumph-car ; 
She  drove  us,  fettered,  through  the  street, 
She  lashed  us,  toiling  at  her  feet! 

We  prayed  to  her,  as  prone  we  lay ; 
She  turned  her  scornful  face  away! 
She  glanced  at  us,  when  sore  afraid ; 
We  rose,  and  hurried  to  her  aid ! 

White  faces  sunk  into  the  grave — 
Black  faces,  too — and  all  were  brave  ; 
Their  red  blood  thrilled  Columbia's  heart- 
It  could  not  tell  the  two  apart. 


V. 

Boys,  whose  glossy  hair 

Grows  gray  in  the  age  of  the  grave, 
Who  lie  so  humble  there, 

Because  you  were  strong  and  brave ; 
You,  whose  lives  cold  set 

Like  a  Winter  sun  ill-timed, 
Whose  hearts  ran  down  ere  yet 

The  noon  of  your  lives  had  chimed ; 
You,  who  in  the  sun 

Of  girlhood's  smiles  were  basking, 
Who  left  fresh  hearts  all  won— 

White  hands  to  be  had  for  asking; 
You,  whose  bright  true  faces 

Are  dimmed  with  clouds  of  dust, 
Who  hide  in  the  gloomy  places, 

And  cringe  in  the  teeth  of  rust ; 
Do  you  know  your  fathers  are  near, 

The  wrecks  of  their  pride  to  meet  ? 


"  DRKAMING    WHAT    ROYAL    LOVERS    SUCH    LOVERS    AS    YOU    WOULD    BK." 


Farm  Festivals.  i 

Do  you  know  your  mothers  are  here, 

To  throw  their  hearts  at  your  feet? 
Do  you  know  the  maiden  hovers 

O'er  you,  with  bended  knee, 
Dreaming  what  royal  lovers 

Such  lovers  as  you  would  be? 
Ruins  of  youthful  graces, 

Strong  buds  crushed  in  Spring, 
Lift  up  your  phantom  faces, 

And  see  the  flowers  we  bring. 

[RESPONSE.] 

We  struck  our  camp  at  break  of  day — we  marched  into  the  fight ; 
We  laid  the  rose  of  pleasure  down,  and  grasped  the  thorns  of  right. 


The  drum's  roll  was  joy  to  us;  the  life  was  sweetly  shrill; 
The  waving  of  our  country's  flag — it  made  our  pulses  thrill. 

They  cheered  us  as  we  walked  the  streets ;  they  marched  us  to  and  frc 
And  they  who  staid  spoke  loud  to  us  how  brave  it  was  to  go. 

Our  faces  set  with  iron  deeds  that  yet  were  to  be  done; 

Our  muskets  clean  and  bright  and  new,  and  glistening  in  the  sun  ; 

It  was  so  like  some  tournament — some  grander  sort  of  play — 
That  time  we  bravely  shouldered  arms,  and  marched,  marched  away ! 

There  came  a  sudden  dash  of  tears  from  those  who  said  good-bye— 
We  set  our  teeth  together  tight,  and  made  them  no  reply. 

There  leaped  a  moisture  to  our  eyes,  but  Pride  was  there,  on  guard, 
And  would  not  pass  the  aching  tears  that  came  so  fierce  and  hard. 

'Twould  never  do  to  droop  our  heads  so  early  in  the  fray! 
So  gallantly  we  shouldered  arms,  and  marched,  marched  away. 

But  when  the  cold  and  cruel  night  about  our  tents  did  creep, 

And  Memory  took  the  midnight  watch,  and  Pride  had  gone  to  sleep, 


1 66  The  Festival  of  Memory. 

When  hard  Endurance  threw  aside  the  mask  that  he  had  worn, 
And  all  we  had  a  day  ago  seemed  ever  from  us  torn, 

And  when  the  boy  within  ns  had  to  perish  for  the  man, 
'Twas  then  the  holiday  was  done — 'twas  then  the  fight  began  ! 

•I  of? 

Full  many  arts  of  agony  can  Trouble's  hand  employ ; 

And  none  of  them  but  she  will  use  upon  a  home-sick  boy! 

The  old  house  came  back  to  ns  ;  and  every  scene  was  there, 

The  bright  and  cheerful  morning  hour — the  singing  and  the  prayer; 

(Before  ns,  every  olden  scene  in  perfect  outline  lay ; 
There  never  was  a  view  so  clear  that  seemed  so  far  away  !) 

The  neat  and  tidy  noon-time — the  evening  banquet  spread— 

The  smiles  that  flew  from  face  to  face — the  pleasant  words  we  said  ; 

The  evening  ramble  down  the  road — 'twas  then  our  fight  began, 
When  first  the  boy  within  us  had  to  perish  for  the  man  ! 

The  morning  broke  ;  and  ere  the  dark  retreated  from  the  sun, 
Came  shuddering  through  the  fresh  air  a  heavy  signal-gun  ; 

And  oh!   it  was  a  grand  time  when,  through  the  battle's  cry, 
We  went,  to  show,  if  needs  must  be,  how  bravely  boys  could  die! 

It  seems  so  like  some  brilliant  dream — that  glory-painted  day, 

We  turned  our  faces  toward  the  fight,  and  marched,  marched  away  ! 

But  when,  the  frantic  battle  done,  we  lay  amid  the  slain, 
Our  blue  coats  trimmed  with  crimson  blood — our  bodies  stabbed  wit!) 
pain — 

When,  with  no  friend  to  care  for  us,  we  stretched  us  out  to  die, 
Without  a  shelter  to  our  heads  except  the  distant  sky  ; 

'Twas  then  the  agony  of  war,  in  all  its  woe  we  knew  ; 

We  ordered  up  our  hearts'  reserves,  and  fought  the  battle  through  ! 


Farm  Festivals.  167 

But  soon,  the  hand  of  suffering  its  heavy  weight  upbore— 
And  sweet  Kelief  came  near  to  us,  and  opened  Heaven's  door ; 

The  spirit  brave  from  every  clime  gave  welcome  to  their  band  ; 
Old  heroes  smiled  into  our  eyes,  and  grasped  us  by  the  hand ! 

We  were  the  honored  guests  of  Heaven — the  heroes  of  the  day  ; 
With  laurel-wreaths  upon  our  brows,  we  marched,  marched  away! 


VI. 

Sleep  well,  O  sad-browed  city  ! 

Whatever  may  betide, 
Not  under  a  nation's  pity, 

But  'mid  a  nation's  pride. 
The  vines  that  round  you  clamber, 

Brightest  shall  be,  and  best ; 
You  sleep  in  the  honor-chamber — 

Each  one  a  royal  guest. 
Columbia  e'er  will  know  you, 

From  out  her  glittering  towers, 
And  kisses  of  love  will  throw  you, 

And  send  you  wreaths  of  flowers ; 
And  e'er  in  realms  of  glory 

Shine  bright  your  starry  claims ; 
Angels  have  heard  your  story, 

And  God  knows  all  your  names. 


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Selections  from  the  Greatest  Authors  of  the  Age.  New  and  Enlarged  Edition. 
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Shakspeare's  Dramatic  Works  and  Poems, 

The  Dramatic  Works  and  Poems  of  William  Shakspeare.  With  Notes,  Orig 
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Odes,  Poems,  Sonnets,  Epics,  and  Lyrical  Effusions  which  have  not  heretofore 
been  collected  together.  With  a  Biographical  Sketch  and  Explanatory  Notes. 
Edited  by  ROBERT  B.  ROOSEVELT.  Portrait  on  Steel.  Post  8vo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

Bayne's  Lessons  from  My  Musters, 

Lessons  from  My  Masters  :  Carlyle,  Tennyson,  and  Ruskin.  Bv  PETER  BAYNE, 
M.A.,  LL.D.  12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

Osgood's  American  Leaves, 

American  Leaves  :  Familiar  Notes  of  Thought  and  Life.  By  Rev.  SAMUEL 
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Sir  Walter  Scott's  Poems, 

The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel, 

32mo,  Paper,  20  cents;  Cloth,  35  cents. 

The  Lady  of  the  Lake, 

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Marinion, 

A  Tale  of  Flodden  Field.     32mo,  Paper,  25  cents;  Cloth,  40  cents. 

Sheridan's  Plays, 

The  Rivals  and  The  School  for  Scandal.  Comedies.  By  RICHARD  BRINSLEY 
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The  Book  of  Gold,  and  other  Poems, 

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The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Scotland: 

From  the  Earliest  to  the  Present  Time.  Comprising  Characteristic  Selections 
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Songs  of  Our  Youth, 

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Sermons  Out  of  Church, 

By  Miss  MULOCK.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 

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English  Men  of  Letters,    Edited  by  John  Morley, 

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SAMUEL  JOHNSON.     By  Leslie  Stephen. 
EDWARD  GIBBON.    By  James  C.  Morison. 
SIR  WALTER  SCOTT.     By  R.  II.  Button. 
SHELLEY.    By  John  Addington  Syrnonds. 
HUME.     By  Professor  Huxley" 
GOLDSMITH.     By  William  Black. 
DANIEL  DEFOE.     By  William  Minto. 
ROBERT  BURNS.     By  Principal  Shairp. 
SPENSER.     By  Dean  Church. 
THACKERAY.     By  Anthony  Trollope. 


BURKE.     By  John  Morley. 
MILTON.     By  Mark  Pattison. 
SOUTIIEY.     By  Edward  Dowden. 
CHAUCER.     By  Adolphus  William  Ward. 
BUNYAN.     By  James  Anthony  Froude. 
COWPER.     By  Goldwin  Smith. 
ALEXANDER  POPE.     By  Leslie  Stephen. 
BYRON.     By  John  Nichol. 
LOCKE.     By  Thomas  Fowler. 
WORDSWORTH.     By  F.  W.  H.  Myers. 


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Cox's  Why  We  Langh. 

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Mason's  Samuel  Johnson, 

Samuel  Johnson  :  His  Words  and  His  Ways ;  What  He  said,  What  He  did, 
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Bigelow's  Bench  and  Bar, 

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Goldsmith's  Poems, 

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The  Old  House  by  the  River, 

The  Old  House  by  the  River.     By  WILLIAM  C.  PRIME.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Later  Years, 

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I  Go  a-Fishing, 

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Benjamin's  Contemporary  Art  in  Europe, 

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Benjamin's  Atlantic  Islands. 

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Spofford's  Art  Decoration  Applied  to  Furniture, 

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Miss  Young's  Ceramic  Art, 

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Swinton's  Studies  in  English  Literature, 

Studies  in  English  Literature :  being  Typical  Selections  of  British  and  Ameri 
can  Authorship,  from  Shakspcare  to  the  Present  Time;  together  with  Defini 
tions,  Notes,  Analyses,  and  Glossary,  as  an  Aid  to  Systematic  Literary  Study. 
By  WILLIAM  SWINTON.  With  Portraits.  Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

Gibson's  Pastoral  Days, 

Pastoral  Days ;  or,  Memories  of  a  New  England  Year.  By  W.  HAMILTON  GIB 
SON.  Superbly  Illustrated.  4to,  Cloth,  $7  50. 

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Homes  Without  Hands, 

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The  Illustrated  Natural  History, 

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